

Hemlock and the Wizard Tower

4th edition

By B Throwsnaill

Published by Bill Ainsworth at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Bill Ainsworth writing as B Throwsnaill

For more information about B Throwsnaill's writing please visit http://www.wiztower.com .

This book is dedicated to my family.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re–sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.

# Table of Contents

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Glossary

#  Prologue

Hemlock sat nervously in a darkened bedroom as she watched an elderly man, who was dressed in a long, green robe and adorned with several long necklaces of blue and green trinket gems, lean over the bed.

Her sister, Mercuria, lay in the nearby bed on her side, clutching her stomach in obvious pain. Hemlock noted that her younger sister's blond hair, which was usually nicely brushed, was now sweaty and matted. Mercuria's fine facial features, which resembled Hemlock's but were cast in a darker complexion, were distorted with pain.

The man began to murmur softly, and then he retrieved a small vial from his robes and took two swigs into his mouth, swallowing hard as if the taste was unpleasant.

Mercuria moaned softly, turning her face into her pillow to muffle the sound. Despite her concern for Mercuria, Hemlock almost chuckled at the gesture, which personified her sister's unwavering consideration of others over herself, no matter what the situation.

By this time the old man's murmuring had risen to a chant. He began to rhythmically move his arms over Mercuria's body, starting with her head, and moving across to her feet; he then repeated the back and forth motion several times.

Mercuria's features softened just a bit, and Hemlock became hopeful the healing would be fully effective. She could sense the restorative magical energy projecting toward her sister from the hands of the healer. But based on her experience of prior castings, she perceived that the intensity of the magic seemed to be lacking.

The man's chanting ended.

Hemlock watched as Mercuria opened her eyes, and then their eyes met. Hemlock felt a twinge of despair as she saw that pain still registered in her sister's gaze. Mercuria did not get up, and remained in the same position. Although Mercuria had clearly experienced some relief, Hemlock knew the spell had failed to fully take effect.

Hemlock looked angrily at the man, who had risen to his full posture and had rested his hand gently on Mercuria's prone form. The man gestured to Hemlock and then toward the door of the bedroom.

"Mercuria, rest if you can. Frascont and I are going to speak for a few moments in the kitchen," Hemlock said softly.

Mercuria nodded gently in response.

Hemlock saw that the man had waited for her to exit first, and she paused to allow him to do so instead.

She followed him out of the bedroom and into a worn hallway that was floored with creaking boards and finished in old, dusty paint. Hemlock and her sister lived in a small apartment, and the hallway led to the kitchen, which was also the main exit to the streets outside.

"It didn't work again," Hemlock noted with a tone of frustration in her voice.

The old man stiffened a bit as he responded: "I did everything right. I even consumed a little extra of the potion. It should have been fully effective."

"Well, it wasn't. We shouldn't pay."

"Look, I have the same expenses as before, and I am doing the same things. My skills are as good as ever. The Wizard Guild still charges me the same for the potion. If you don't pay me then I won't be able to come back. And you won't find anyone else who'll do better than me or for less coin. It's not my fault."

Hemlock believed the old man. She knew something had changed about magic in her neighborhood in recent months. Spells simply weren't as effective any longer. She thought of her sister, lying in pain in the next room, and her jaw stiffened.

"I'll give you all of the coin I have. Cast the spell again, and use twice the potion. I want her on her feet again."

Hemlock knew that she would be spending the last of her savings, which was a dangerous step to take when faced with the uncertainty of when she would come into money again.

The old healer had already started back toward the bedroom when Hemlock stopped him with a question.

"Frascont, what is causing these spells to weaken?"

"I...I don't know," he responded. He then glanced around the apartment furtively before continuing: "but I would venture to guess the Wizard Tower is behind it."

# BOOK ONE
## Chapter One

The night air was crisp as Hemlock, a lithe figure wrapped in a gray cloak, approached the decaying remains of a once proud structure. Heavy beams of wood, now sundered, splayed out like broken ribs, leaving the main structure sagging in some places and collapsed in others. One section of the old building, more stubborn than the rest, remained standing at its full height, and it was toward the top of this section that Hemlock directed her attention. She was able to make out a small glowing ember atop that old roof, and she shook her head condescendingly as she sprung onto the wall and scampered up the side of the building easily.

As she gained the roof she saw an old, balding man sitting cross-legged and puffing gently on a long pipe. His cloak and pants were a worn and non-descript brown, and were slightly ill-fitting on his large, portly frame. The familiar scent of his tobacco comforted her.

"The whole Warrens is surely aware of you, Safreon. Why do you insist on giving away our best hiding spots by smoking that pipe?" she asked.

"Hmph," he grunted, mouth still on pipe, gesturing for her to sit beside him.

Hemlock took his cue and sat, taking little stock in the commanding view of the marketplace the rooftop afforded. It was too familiar to register as anything but another place to spot the ill-tempered types who preyed on the decent folk who kept life moving in the district that extended from her position for a score of blocks in each direction.

"Sometimes a visible deterrent is enough," said Safreon, "and some evenings I'm just tired. Let the cutpurses have a night to consider the direction of their lives. Tomorrow I'll resume stalking them."

"I make no such guarantee."

"Fair enough. They've been warned. If strong drink or malice blunts the impact of that warning, then they have made their choice this night."

Hemlock didn't answer; instead she looked toward her and her sister's apartment, the vicinity of which was visible, though several blocks away. Seeing all was quiet there, she turned her attention to the Wizard Tower, which loomed at the edge of the Warrens near the shore of Hemisphere Lake, which separated the low-class Warrens from the upper-class section which was simply called the Elite district.

The Wizard Tower was taller than any other structure in the City of San Cyra. It rose to a height of several hundred feet, and was composed of seven distinct floors. The outer walls were round, and at evenly spaced intervals around each floor a series of tall, ornately arched windows were in evidence. The glass of these windows did not transmit any signs of activity within the Tower other than a faint glimmer of light that emanated from behind many of them from dusk through the darkest hours of the night. At the top of the Tower there was an intricately shaped glass atrium that rose up from the stone below it at an equal width, and gradually tapered as it rose via a series of sharp angular transitions which culminated in a slender glass rod that extended upwards to form the apex.

A shimmering light played around the top of the Wizard Tower as Hemlock watched.

"How is your sister?" asked Safreon, breaking the silence.

"Better, although that healer, Frascont, needed to use an extra potion to help her."

"How did you pay for it?"

"I managed."

"I see. I can lend you some coins until we recover more money with no clear owner."

Hemlock turned to him sharply. "And what if we can't wait that long? Why would a few coins taken as a finder's fee be such a problem?"

"You know why. Our enemies would condemn us, saying we are little more than thieves ourselves. They have connections, and those few who cherish the rule of law would listen to such criticism."

Hemlock looked away and exhaled forcefully. The Wizard Tower caught her eye again, and she blurted out something that had been simmering in her mind for a long time. "It's the Wizards behind it all! They are the reason my sister suffers as she does. We need to do something about them!"

Safreon did not respond immediately. Hemlock turned toward him; he merely sat, puffing on his pipe. This infuriated her, but she controlled her anger. She knew from past arguments it only ended up worse for her when she lost her temper. He always made her feel like a foolish child, and she didn't want to cede him that intellectual high ground.

"Remember that first night when you tried to rob me? You were a good thief—the best I'd encountered, in fact—even then. But you didn't think the rumors about 'Safreon the Vigilante' were real, and you didn't take the time to learn about me. Then, because of your ignorance, you made an error in judgment that led to your capture at my hands."

"A point you never tire of bringing up!"

"Because it underscores a critical point. I've been studying this City and the people in it for years. I agree the Wizards must be dealt with eventually, but in due time and with subtlety. You don't know the first thing about them. You look at their Tower and imagine we'll attack it? It's foolish nonsense. There are obstacles and wards. How would we cross the Moat of Acid? What of the Drawbridge of Ninety-Nine Tears?"

"I don't know," conceded Hemlock, "but there has to be a way. And you do know things about the Wizards! If you just tell me what you know, then we can come up with a plan!"

"You're not ready yet, and my plans for the Wizards proceed along other avenues. Never confront an enemy at their point of strength when other, weaker options exist."

"Like?"

Safreon puffed on his pipe again before answering. "Call it diplomacy."

Hemlock stood and turned to him. "Diplomacy? When my sister takes ill again, should I trust in your diplomacy?"

"You must," responded Safreon, rising. "Now calm yourself in the remaining night hours. You've agreed to trust me many times, yet here you are arguing with me again. You must have faith in me and my plans. Rest assured I will teach you everything you'll need to know and more—but in the proper time."

Hemlock turned away as Safreon climbed down to the street to take his leave of her for the night. He had made her feel like a chastened child again. Part of her bristled at his lecture, but another part appreciated the truth in his words. She was at war within herself for several minutes, but, finally, temperance won out over defiance and desire for swift action.

Though Safreon's smoking and their ensuing argument had likely compromised her position, Hemlock was not inclined to move for several hours. She watched over the marketplace and surrounding blocks, but her eye always seemed to stray back to the heights of the Wizard Tower and the glowing dweomer that played lazily around its apex.

An unusual motion caught her eye several blocks to her right. She was certain she'd seen something soar from a rooftop down to the street, and now she could barely make out two figures huddled there.

She rose, reaching a full sprint in a matter of steps. The rooftop became a blur as she sped toward its edge and then leapt into the open air. She flew for several seconds before hitting a lower rooftop of an adjacent building in a controlled tumble. She vaulted out of the tumble and jumped from rooftop to rooftop, covering the intervening blocks in an astonishingly short period of time.

As the scene on the street came into view, she saw a man of strange appearance roughing up a drunk on the street below. The aggressor was clothed only in a loincloth, and his slender and muscular body was light blue. Upon his back rested an odd pair of wings. The wings were folded and covered in feathers. Hemlock realized this was a "bird man"—a member of a group who had recently immigrated to the City from the west.

The Bird Man was close to wresting a coin purse from the prone man, who was putting up a surprising amount of resistance, given his apparent condition.

"Awwww, no you dowwwn't!" slurred the drunken man.

Hemlock skidded down the shingled roof and then grabbed hold of an iron rain gutter. She slid down the gutter, wincing as it groaned slightly under her weight, but she reached the street just as the Bird Man was breaking into a sprint with the coin purse in hand.

He was fast, but Hemlock was faster. The Bird Man spotted her just as she reached him, and suddenly his wings extended and his feet left the ground. But Hemlock was too quick; she got a hold of the man's belt as he rose. Though he carried her with him into the air a few feet, Hemlock was able to strike the man several times under his arm. The Bird Man lost control of his ascent, and Hemlock rode him down into a hard face first landing in the street.

Safreon had a term for a special skill Hemlock possessed. He referred to her as being "magically attuned." He explained that meant she was sensitive to magic. She could perceive it when most could not, and she could often understand its nature.

Just before the Bird Man had taken flight, Hemlock detected a magical spell of activation. It had been a command word and an odd, mental visualization Hemlock had perceived as a geometric pattern.

The Bird Man was out cold. His wings appeared to be undamaged by the crash.

Safreon's words re-played in her mind. _How would we cross the Moat of Acid?_

"This is how," she muttered, quickly removing the wings from the Bird Man.

She was able to wear the wings comfortably after making some adjustments to the leather straps. They were surprisingly light, and Hemlock sensed their power of flight was more magical than physical, with the wing shape serving only to amplify the magical characteristics.

She noticed the Bird Man's blue skin was the result of a covering of a chalky substance she had to clean off her hands after handling him. His skin was colored normally beneath the chalk.

She tossed the coin purse to the drunk as he shuffled toward her, rubbing his head and cursing. Though she needed the money, her deference to Safreon carried sway in that regard. But in another, more fundamental area, his influence did not fare so well. Hemlock was heading toward the Wizard Tower.

After she'd walked several blocks, during which time she had resisted multiple counter-attacks by her conscience, she stood in the shadow of the Tower. Its massive size was far more imposing up close, and she wasn't without fear as she stood in the shadows of a hovel that lay close to the Moat of Acid.

The Moat encircled the entire Tower, and its bubbling, viscous, green surface looked very threatening. She had actually witnessed a man try to cross the Moat one night some years prior. He'd attempted to slide across on the flimsy purchase of a rope attached to a bolt, which he'd fired from a small, makeshift ballista. The bolt had given way about two thirds of his way across—and had sent him hurtling into the Moat with his face contorted in a silent scream. Hemlock had wondered, prior to this incident, whether the Moat might not have really been filled with acid. But the disintegration of this man, his partially destroyed limbs thrashing above the surface of the moat, first devoid of skin, and then even of sinew, had convinced her of the acid's authenticity.

These threats are real. Are you sure you want to do this?

The thought of her sister suffering galvanized her.

And how many others suffer as she does?

She walked away from the Tower for a block and cautiously attempted to activate the wings. Her first attempt failed, but her second worked and she felt the wings extend on her back. She felt light, and before she realized it, she'd begun to hover a few feet over the street. She wasn't sure how to control the flight and wished she'd observed the Bird Man more closely.

Did he extend his arms?

She tried that and began to climb rapidly. Fearing to rise too high, she brought her arms back to her sides and she began to descend. Feeling bolder, she raised her arms again and leaned forward slightly. This time she began to fly forward as she climbed.

After a few more experiments, she felt confident she could cross the thirty yard width of the moat.

She returned to the shadow of the hovel and realized the moment for the final decision had arrived. She was surprised to feel her doubts wash away in the face of it.

It just feels right!

That was enough for her. She jogged toward the Moat and then accelerated as she mouthed the magic word to activate the wings. She raised her arms and leaned forward, and in a moment the strange green fluid was passing below her feet. She thought about trying to fly to the top of the Tower, but as she did so, a sudden gust of wind spoiled her flight.

She began rolling uncontrollably and losing height. She didn't know how to compensate. She raised her arms frantically, but because she'd rolled to her side, the motion caused her to dip toward the glistening surface of the Moat. She recoiled her arms as the distant shore approached. She had no hope of regaining control—only that she had enough momentum to carry her over the acid.

Fortunately, she did. She hit the ground on the other side, mere feet from the Moat's edge. But she landed hard and rolled onto her back. The wings twisted and broke under the strain of the fall.

She rose and sprinted several yards until she reached the base of the Tower. As she removed the remnants of the wings, she looked all around for signs of detection.

The night was still quiet, and only the faint howling of a distant wolf interrupted it.

Her adrenaline was pumping as she considered her next course of action. She knew the gatehouse was to her right as she stood with her back on the cold granite of the Wizard Tower. Everyone knew the gatehouse was protected by the Drawbridge of Ninety-Nine Tears. As she scampered around the Tower toward the gatehouse, she remembered the legend.

_The Drawbridge was named for an apocryphal event that had taken place in the early, formative years of the current age of the City. According to the tale, there had been a faction in the Elite citizenry that had been wary of the influence the Wizard Guild had been gaining over City politics. A legislative power play had been made in the Senate, which would have regulated the use of Magic and outlawed the_ _Wizard Guild—or any organized group of Magic Users, for that matter, who would not have agreed to be "supervised" by City government authorities. The Wizard's Guild had reacted quickly and decisively._

The Senate members, who intended to unanimously pass the measure to institute the new regulations, had numbered ninety-nine. Each had been abducted on the night prior to the passing of the legislation; some had been abducted by means of sorcery and others had been taken by more conventional means. For six days and nights, nothing had been seen or heard from the ninety-nine abductees, and no means had been found to enter or communicate with the occupants of the Wizard Tower.

Finally, on the seventh day, the Drawbridge had been lowered, and the ninety-nine Senators had been impaled on long gleaming spears which had been arrayed in two rows running up and down the length of the long wooden platform. All ninety-nine had been near death, and appeared to be dying of thirst; their bodies were horribly desiccated. Though the Drawbridge had been down, no desperate relatives, city guards, or any force had been able to cross onto the Drawbridge to intervene on behalf of the ninety-nine. Then, from within the Tower, a great chant was heard, as if each wizard had chanted in unison under the power of some mysterious amplification.

"Know this: each of these ninety-nine has been complicit in crimes against our Guild. We will not abide those with hostile intent towards us. Each of these shall die upon the Drawbridge unless they can shed a single tear to atone for their crimes. Ninety-nine tears shall be the sum total of our required penance for these crimes. The alternative is death."

Each of the ninety-nine Senators had perished soon after these words were spoken, for none had been able to muster the single tear required, though those who had some small remaining pool of energy had cried out, tearlessly and pathetically, at their fate.

Hemlock couldn't help but shudder a bit as she beheld the drawbridge and thought about its legend. It was closed, but there was a slight gap at the top, where its edge met a stone gatehouse. The gatehouse extended outward from the Tower proper at a height of almost twenty-five yards. The shafts of the spears, which were mounted on the drawbridge, were visible through this gap, and gave it an appearance not unlike a crude mouth, facing upwards towards the sky, punctuated by thin wooden teeth.

She had a rope and a small grappling hook with her, which she pulled out of her backpack. She secured her hook through the gap and onto the very spears which were described in the story of the drawbridge. It was those same spears she used as handholds to slip through the gap and into the interior side. She then climbed back down the inside using those same shafts.

That was almost too easy!

She had progressed farther into the Tower than anyone she had ever heard tell of. Perhaps even this much progress, should she fail, would earn her a place in song and folklore: at least in the Warrens. She shook her head and quickly dismissed any thoughts of failure.

Then she thought sadly of Safreon, and how his countenance lately seemed to be aging before her eyes. She'd watched him living his life in the constant sorrow of martyrdom; he didn't seem to derive much joy from his existence, despite the appreciation of many people he had helped and mentored. In her estimation, he, above most others, deserved happiness in return for his sacrifices.

A portcullis stood before her as tall as two of the tallest men in the City combined, and the iron was black, cunningly curved and slick with moisture. It was spiked downward at the bottom, and outward along its surface, with a number of cruel, upturned barbs. It looked massively heavy.

Hemlock began to despair. How she could have assumed she'd be able to gain entry into the Tower once she got past the drawbridge? She felt naive and foolish.

The Portcullis seemed to loom larger in front of her. She experienced a vision suddenly, of her flesh suspended on those upturned spikes.

The spikes glistened invitingly in the darkness. She was sure they could easily support her weight if they were properly embedded in her flesh. Maybe it would be a relief to come to such an end. At least it would show she had stubbornly tried to climb the obstacle and had never wavered or considered retreat.

Safreon and Mercuria would be devastated at her loss, but she also knew they would eventually go on with their lives. And she thought they would have been proud of her, after years of recollection, each in their own way.

She caught herself, as she realized she was crouched and ready to spring up and run at the Portcullis!

It was odd she didn't remember consciously planning to do anything like that.

In some instinctive way, she realized she had actually been preparing to impale herself on those upturned spikes, just as she'd imagined herself doing in her melancholy thoughts of the past few minutes.

Of course, the Portcullis of Infinite Sorrow!

She'd been so relieved to get past the drawbridge she'd been caught unawares by the Tower's next legendary defense. She became aware of the emotion emanating from the Portcullis then; it washed over her like a slap in the face: feelings of sorrow and despair were rolling over her mind, and they were almost incalculably strong.

She had to act decisively, as she realized this was the strongest magic spell she'd ever encountered.

The Portcullis stood at the end of a shallow tunnel, with an arched roof of masonry formed by the line rendered by the top of the Portcullis, where it met the wall. There was nothing to climb to, and there was no way to climb over. The seam where the Portcullis met the upper masonry was impenetrable.

She noted the space behind the Portcullis for the first time. It was a shadowy hallway, which was a continuation of the one housing the Portcullis. At the end of it, perhaps twenty feet further, there was a pair of large, ornate wooden doors. Between the doors and the inside of the Portcullis, Hemlock beheld the legendary Demonic Gargoyles.

It was said the Gargoyles had been animated from the rafters of the Hall of the Senate on the Night of Ninety-Nine Tears, and they had taken hostage two of the strongest fighters of the City, who were also Senators. It was also said they had since rested in eternal guard of the Wizard Tower, and any intruder that managed to defy impossible odds and cross the Moat, enter the Drawbridge, and penetrate the Portcullis, would be torn to bits by them.

Their forms were winged and composed of smooth gray granite. Their hindquarters were powerful, their hands tipped with talons, and their wings were massive and folded. Their faces were grinning death masks with exaggerated, animalistic features. They inspired an instinctive urge for flight in Hemlock (though it felt weaker than the melancholy attraction of the Portcullis) as she fell under their gaze.

Though they betrayed no properties beyond that of normal stone statues, she felt she was being stalked by cunning and merciless predators.

The sorrow that had almost overcome her moments before returned with a renewed force, and overshadowed the fear inspired by the Gargoyles. It was a two-pronged mental assault of fear and melancholy.

She needed to act decisively.

She considered the Gargoyles would surely attack her if she somehow managed to get inside the Portcullis. She assumed they would eviscerate her in short order, and the wizards would find her remains in that hallway some days henceforth, and would wonder what impetuous soul had ventured that far within their defenses.

She also considered she really didn't have any means to bypass the Portcullis. She had a file in her set of lockpicks, but it was small and it would take her weeks to file through that iron. She judged she only had minutes to spare. The temptation of capitulating to the Portcullis railed against her self-control mercilessly, and it held an attractive promise: an end of suffering.

She quickly realized there could be only one solution. She considered an idea that the only force that could possibly open or destroy the Portcullis was the Gargoyles. She wondered whether the wizards had thought of that possibility. She felt her life depended on their having overlooked it.

She assumed the Gargoyles would animate if she entered their side of the hallway. The Portcullis prevented this: but not completely.

She ran up to the Portcullis, and focused her mind completely on resisting the melancholy as she embraced the cruel iron and extended her limbs through the spaces between the bars.

If her initial plan didn't work, she knew she would soon be hanging from those spikes in a willing, dying embrace.

Her hands extended to their full length and reached out toward the Gargoyles. She supported herself with her upper arms as they pressed against the cold bars, and took a low stance, as she also extended her legs through the bars and touched the ground on the other side of the Portcullis with her feet.

The Gargoyles awoke. Their eyes glowed with an anti–light which appeared as some sort of active darkness. They didn't move at first, but all the same, she felt the awakened presence of a great coiled energy, which was building in intensity.

In the space of one breath, the Gargoyles sprung— her mind registered the motion; her entire being shouted out a single message that reverberated through her consciousness and was able to drown out even the bittersweet, tragic melancholy of the Portcullis.

JUMP BACK!

She launched backwards into a tumbling somersault as greedy talons rended the ground where her legs had been half a moment before.

The Gargoyles were terrible in their rage, and they seemed to know their prey was close at hand. One, and then the other, grasped the slick iron bars, which now separated them from their kill; and with a frenzied effort of unimaginable strength, they began to bend the bars askew.

The iron groaned. Perhaps the Portcullis itself groaned, as if imbued with some fell awareness. Hemlock wasn't sure. Despite the terrible groaning, the Gargoyles steadily bent the iron until they made enough space for their bulk to pass through.

Sheathing their wings tightly around their bodies, they crawled through the openings.

She'd made her final gamble and now had to await the result passively. And, as was usual for her gambles, the stakes were nothing less than her very survival.

As the Gargoyles gained purchase on her side of the Portcullis, they slowly moved toward her, menacingly, as if they were savoring the moment of her death.

She rapidly realized their speed and their strength were far beyond her reckoning. She could not evade them or jump past them–even with her excellent reflexes.

But then it happened. The Gargoyles slowed and then turned around, in a shuffling gait, back toward the Portcullis. They embraced it, their great arms outstretched grotesquely; and as they did so, their forms reverted to smooth, unmoving stone.

And then she felt something else. She was totally alone again with the melancholy of the Portcullis. The Gargoyles were just regular stone once more, as she sensed their magical spirits had been seized in some way by the seductive malice of those glistening iron bars.

Risking the icy touch of the Portcullis one final time, she crept through one of the openings that had been made by the Gargoyles, and approached the heavy wooden doors of the Tower itself. As she stepped beyond the Portcullis, it felt like stepping out of a bitterly cold night into a warm homestead. With a feeling of relief, she realized the Portcullis' magic did not affect the Tower side of the hallway.

Recklessly, she touched the double doors, and she did not detect any magic. She surveyed what appeared to be some conventional locks, which would take little time for her to pick.

Nothing stirred within the Wizard Tower, even after the heavy footfalls of the Gargoyles had resonated over the surrounding moat during the recent encounter.

But at that moment, unbeknownst to her, a robed figure was moving about the outside of the Tower on a seventh floor balcony. It lingered above the drawbridge for a time, looked down, and then retired within the mysterious confines of the Tower.

She soon stood in an ornate entrance hall, which extended upward five stories, and was finished with elegant mahogany walls and great, multi–story tapered windows of opaque glass bordered with pale marble. Twin carpeted staircases crisscrossed the space and wound upward, providing access to the four visible floors above.

The beautiful woodwork of the hall felt oppressive, as if she'd entered into the belly of some ancient sailing ship, preserved in funereal majesty, resting deep on the floor of an ancient sea.

She quickly gathered her wits, realizing that staring at her surroundings was a good way for her to end up being discovered and captured.

Hemlock's goal was to ascend to the seventh floor of the Tower. She figured whatever force was siphoning magical energy from the Warrens district would most likely be situated there for maximum effect. And she had noticed (as had many in the City), that strange lights and dweomers were seen to dance above the Wizard Tower in recent weeks.

Don't the wizards realize the lights look a little suspicious and that people notice these things? Are the wizards so detached from reality they don't consider what people observe?

The stairs rose before her, the warmth of their mahogany railings enhancing their welcoming expanse, which Hemlock perceived being in stark opposition to the danger she knew would surely await her if she dared to take them. Subtlety would be required for success—she couldn't simply climb up those stairs and expect a warm reception from the wizards. She hoped alternative means to ascend might exist.

She had to be cautious, just in case the wizards had been crafty enough to trap the interior of the Tower, despite her hunches they might not do so. She hadn't survived as long as she had in the streets of the Warrens by being naïve.

The entry hall contained two large wooden doors, located slightly ahead of her, and offset to her left and right. Also, hidden somewhat in shadow under the balcony of the second floor above was a smaller door, dimly lit by flickering lamps on either side, and showing no visible doorknob or locking mechanism.

Service entrance.

With a final, almost feral glance to the stories above, she silently darted across the floor, and with a graceful turn, halted, back to the wall, beside this smaller door.

The wall at her back pulsed in an abnormal rhythm. This wasn't something she had expected or could react to instinctively. She considered her course of action, conscious that precious time was elapsing and every moment spent in the open hall was a risk to her.

After feeling them for a time, Hemlock noted a pattern to the rhythms, and a distinct but faint hiss that sounded at a regular interval in the complex pattern. She wondered whether the source of the vibration was some sort of automata. Though automata were often not threatening, she weighed the risk of the likelihood of a trap or some other dark outcome waiting for her, should she pass through the small door.

_Voices_ , she thought, as her ears registered new sounds from above.

Footsteps on the stairs above. Three voices: two elderly and reflective; one hissing, forceful. Third or Fourth floor, probably. Descending. No time. Choose. Or die.

She moved sideways, catlike, to stand in front of the small door, straddling its width and feeling methodically along its surface. The echoing sounds of footsteps and voices above on the stairs indicated the rate of their descent was somewhat slower than she'd first thought.

Thank goodness for the old timers. Their doddering footsteps came slowly. She pictured them grasping a railing while they walked. She returned her focus to locating a latch or other hidden mechanism.

As she concentrated on the rhythmic pattern that emanated from behind the door, she noticed a spell warding it. It had been well concealed and subtle, and she hadn't noticed it immediately, wasting precious seconds.

She had to risk entry despite the machinery beyond the door. Hemlock focused on the spell. It manifested to her as a subtle mixture of anticipation, defensiveness, and paranoia. It radiated from the middle of the door, and she felt a certain geometry to it: it had an ordered nature and some dimensionality.

What does it mean?

Vibrations from above, more voices. Getting closer.

She returned her focus to the magical ward on the door.

What do the sensations mean? Anticipation... Expectation? What is the key to the magical protection? It's a service door – it shouldn't be a complex ward. Feel.

The footsteps were now directly above her, on the second floor.

Not a complex ward – likely runic or spoken.

The geometry she felt pointed to runic.

Footsteps turning onto the stairs above!

Soon they would be within sight of her.

She reacted from a place of desperate instinct now: raising her hand to the middle of the door, she pointed toward it with her fore and middle fingers. Her eyes closed and her head leaned back slightly, as she began to trace a pattern in the air–following the guidance of her mind's eye as it struggled to traverse the geometry of the rune she was seeing in her mind. Her hand steadily traced out a graceful character consisting of six interwoven lines with three dots above it.

The door clicked inward softly, and she slipped in just as three figures descended to the first floor, and a moment before a robed figure with a serpentine appearance darted its head her way.

As she slid the door shut silently behind her, Hemlock hoped no sound had escaped in the short time the door had been open just a crack–which had been enough time to allow her slight form to pass within. She now stood in a damp, dark space which had a musty, metallic smell permeating it.

A band of dull green light, emanating from deep within the room, shone rhythmically up and down over Hemlock's body as she surveyed the room for exits. The only exit seemed to be a metallic spiral staircase, which rose up into the ceiling some distance in front of her, behind a machine of infernal appearance.

The machine consisted of a man–sized glass piston filled with a glowing green liquid, which was being pumped by the actuation of a metallic shaft. Ghostlike, an airy human figure worked a wooden handle attached to a round gear which turned the shaft. The figure was nearly transparent, but the room behind it was oddly distorted.

There was a large glass vat which was reinforced with iron banding, which was suspended above the piston. Within the vat rested the flanks of a massive green Dragon attached to some sort of mechanical device. The Dragon was suspended by chains, its clawed feet securely restrained with massive iron cuffs. The upper body and head of the Dragon were not visible, but appeared to extend up into the floor above. The glowing green fluid dribbled from a number of gaping wounds on the hindquarters of the Dragon, hissing as it fell into the vat, which then fed the green fluid into the glass piston.

The piston pumped the green fluid into a copper pipe which ascended into a larger glasslike shaft, within which the glowing fluid could be seen to flow to the upper floors of the Tower in great volume.

The ghostly figure continued to pump as Hemlock took in her surroundings.

Sensing no living, corporeal occupants in the room, Hemlock gazed in unmitigated awe at the massive body of the Dragon, finding she was unsure whether it was alive, dead or in some intermediate state. She'd heard legends about dragons, but had never seen one. Seeing its massive form imprisoned there and subjugated by the wizards gave her an increased appreciation for their power.

Hemlock cautiously strode toward the ghostly figure, casting a lengthening shadow on the wall behind her as she was bathed in the ghastly green light.

The figure was manlike in form; it appeared to wear full armor, and moved as if encumbered by its weight. As she approached it, there was no indication it sensed her presence.

She continued to creep toward it, moving silently. A faint sound began to emanate from the figure and within two steps, it had grown to a wail of utter agony.

Startled, she leapt back into a crouch, and just as quickly the sound was gone. She glanced to either side of the room to make sure she had not been surprised by any other developments, and noticed both walls were lined with shelves holding supplies of a mysterious nature. There were beakers, books, strange robes, brooms, and a host of tools like shovels and pick axes; all in all there was a myriad of what were likely items of day to day use in a wizard tower.

Feeling somewhat befuddled by the strange apparition, but confident she could circumvent both the machine and the Ghost, she moved toward one of the shelves in a circular motion, maintaining the distance between herself, the ghostly figure and the machine.

She could see the figure in profile then, and her heart skipped a beat. The features were some cruel combination of human and skeletal, locked in a howling scream of pain and anguish, which seemed to reflect a level of suffering beyond anything in Hemlock's experience—and she had witnessed her share of suffering.

She imagined it would roughly equate to those moments of utter destruction of the mortal form, which normally extinguished the flame of consciousness before the true magnitude of the torment could be experienced. This man–ghost–skeleton appeared to be enduring in this state, however, as a gibbering shell put to some foul purpose in this Tower, no doubt, Hemlock felt, as a result of some Wizard spell of an ultimately corrupt nature.

Averting her gaze from the tragic figure, Hemlock briefly toyed with the idea of trying to free it somehow. But her senses quickly told her she was in no way qualified to meddle in such a powerful dweomer, and she strongly felt her goal was at the top of the Tower, not here.

She could sense the form of the magic being employed in this room. Woven into the magic were strong emotions of ambition, aggression, and perhaps even megalomania, locked into a complex weave with the considerable mechanics of the machine itself. It was like a tapestry of indecipherable pattern, folded back on itself in four or more dimensions. Her mind simply could not make any sense of the complex lattice of these spells. Simple wards and traps she could often handle, but this was different. Understanding this magic would have been like a journeyman painter trying to touch up a masterwork painting: the probable result would be destructive. She felt it would likely result in her destruction and possibly that of a good portion of the City as well. Such was the power of the magic that she felt here.

She ruefully moved toward the staircase, experiencing a reluctance to leave this machine in operation, but not knowing how else to proceed. As she approached it, she saw at periodic points along the spiral stair, its railing was adorned with odd hands, which were cast in the form of a clenched fist. Some were large, some were small. The staircase ascended to an opening in the ceiling and led to another floor above, which was cast in shadow. She anticipated there was another level of this maintenance area for this strange machine, accessible via this stairway.

_Sound!_ she warned herself, as the door opened.

She heard new metallic sounds, clearly but faintly, amidst the thunderous metallic churning of the strokes of the piston; there were clattering footsteps heard on the flagstone floor near the door.

She tumbled into a somersault and landed behind a small workbench near the spiral stair. After a few moments, she peeked out beside the bench.

A small clockwork gnome, who was dressed in a bright red, conical, velvet hat, clattered and sputtered over to the bench and placed a silver tray on it, upon which rested a large glass jar containing a spidery form suspended in a milky fluid. The Gnome's body was composed of brass and iron parts: bolts, gears, pistons, and welds.

The gnome soon made its way toward the staircase. It did not seem aware of her presence; as it reached the stair, she heard the metalwork of the steps groan slightly under the weight of the automaton when it began to ascend.

Suddenly there was a metal scraping sound and the climbing stopped. Hemlock risked a glance toward the stair and she saw the lowest of the metallic hands had opened, and was now gesturing as if motioning the Gnome to stop. A small mouth formed in the palm of the hand, and Hemlock had to contain a gasp.

"What is the form of the concept when unseen?" cried that small mouth, with the strangest voice she had ever heard. It sounded like what she imagined a talking mouse or rat would sound like, yet it was melodious just the same.

"A dream," responded a voice–she realized it must be the Gnome's voice–somehow quite understandable despite being composed of a fast series of horns, grinds, squeaks, metallic shivers and dull groans.

The sounds of climbing resumed.

Hemlock heard another odd scraping sound. Again the climbing stopped.

"What is the nature of the spotted alligator?" cried the strange little voice, challengingly.

"To rend and consume," replied the Gnome.

Hemlock heard the odd pattern of challenge and response continue at the next highest point on the stair.

"How high flies the Lagma when his wings are mired in magma?"

"The gift of flight he's never known."

The Gnome had almost reached the next floor as another question was asked. But Hemlock could not make out the phrasing of the question. She glided along the floor, reaching the foot of the stair, but she was unable to hear the answer in her concentration on executing the quick motion without making any noise.

She cursed to herself as she took stock of the fact she had missed both the final riddle and its answer. Since the first three answers had been phrases, she imagined she stood little chance of getting that final answer right on her own.

She wondered if she could leap off the stairs or even climb up beneath them. She walked toward the underside to investigate. As she moved closer, an invisible force gently pushed her backwards. She surged forward then and was thrown back several feet, landing on her backside. Apparently, she mused, the wizards had thought of that.

Again she reflected on her options. Since the Gnome seemed to be a machine, there seemed to her to be a good chance that he was automated and might return. But she wondered how long that would take.

Every moment of delay increased the chances the wizards would notice the damage to the Gargoyles and Portcullis.

She knew she was relying on the wizard's arrogance and overconfidence. She wondered whether whatever magical protections they might have had been allowed to weaken over the years of seeming invulnerability. Or, she considered, maybe there were alarms going off somewhere, but no one had noticed them–yet.

##  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 quickly 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 the 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."

##  Chapter Three

Hemlock reached the exit to the service room and felt for a magical aura on the door. The door was magical, but the magic was identical to that borne by the door which she entered on the first floor. She quickly traced the required rune pattern in the air, and as the door started to slide open, she grabbed the side of it to stop its momentum and peered out into the hall through the crack that the open door had created.

A quick scan revealed that the immediate area in the hallway was clear–nobody was on the stairs. She noticed odd sconces on the walls which supported small lamps. There was no flame in these lamps, yet they did emit a glowing light via a glass enclosure. Within these enclosures small winged creatures turned little handles. As she watched, momentarily entranced, one of the little imps scratched his head and when he paused, the light in that lamp went out.

Apparently slave labor is popular in the tower.

She would be gambling on the Imps not raising an alarm if she ventured into the hall.

She noticed the door past the western stairway that Merit had told her about; she slipped out the door and moved quickly but steadily into the hall, avoiding eye contact with any of the Imps in the lamps. She moved with a feline grace, upper torso parallel to the floor and kept up a moderate but steady pace as her ears were attuned to every sound around her.

The first thing that she heard was activity above. Some voices: maybe three or four, engaged in a melancholy discussion. A furtive glance toward the third floor above revealed that the speakers were farther up on the fifth floor–for she could see feet and robes on the stairwell there.

The second thing that she heard was singing. Somewhere nearby, a deep baritone voice was singing a solemn song in a tone of regret. It sounded to her like it was coming from the same floor that she was on.

She reached the door past the western stair quickly.

She heard another door open with a creaking sound below her and then she heard the familiar sounds of shuffling mechanical footsteps, and the accompanying whir of many gears and cogs.

_That must be Number Two_ , she thought to herself with some alarm.

She hoped that the door she had reached wouldn't be a problem to open because she might easily be detected by Number Two if she had to linger at this door any longer than a few seconds.

Adding to her discomfort, she sensed a flicker above and realized that the small Imp which had been cranking the lamp above her right shoulder had stopped and was gazing at her intently.

Ignoring the Imp, she noted that this door had a keyhole on it. Gingerly, she tried the handle.

Locked.

With a sharp snap of her elbow, a lock pick set that she kept in her sleeve fell into her hand. Using a practiced motion, she extended the pick that she usually tried first for high grade locks. She inserted it into the keyhole and after a few dexterous manipulations of the pick she heard the satisfying sound of the lock clicking. She opened the door and slipped inside, having no time to be more cautious.

The singing was now close–too close–it was coming from a source that was in the same room with her. Composing herself, she turned with resignation toward the voice and beheld a sculpted stone bust sitting on an oaken table. The bust was fashioned in the image of a scholarly looking man of middle age and it was singing in the same warm, baritone human voice that she had heard from the hallway.

Relief swept over her.

The room in which she now stood was a fancy parlor with a fireplace, a small table for cards and an ornate bar with many bottles, glass tumblers and wooden kegs of various shapes and sizes. There was a musky scent in the air of perspiration mixed with liquor.

The magical singing was convenient because it masked any sound she that might have made, if others were nearby.

She darted over to the bar, went around it and crouched behind it. She paused for a moment, and then raised her head to peer over the bar at the room once more.

There were two exits from the room, each opening into a plain stone hallway without an intervening door. The relative finery of this room did not extend into the hallways, which were composed of rough cut stone blocks.

Perhaps this was a break room of a sort for tired wizards, she speculated. The wizards must enjoy similar forms of leisure as people in the Warrens did. Admittedly, the singing bust was an exotic form of entertainment, but local mages in the Warrens had grown bold enough in recent years, before the waning of magical energy, to cast crude versions of this sort of enchantment to entertain pub goers. She was impressed by the enchantment, but not astonished by it.

Then the singing stopped.

She turned toward the bust and was confronted with the unmistakable fact that the bust was looking at her with a wry, almost roguish grin on its animated face.

"Well, hello there. I figured I'd keep singing for a while until you got comfortable. I didn't want to startle you out of your ... skin," said the Bust in a flamboyant voice with an unmistakably suggestive tone.

Composing herself, Hemlock stood to her full height–still behind the bar–and instinctively stared down the Bust like she would a drunken warrior on a two day bender.

She moved quickly, and stood within a few feet of the Bust, which regarded her with what she thought was an expression of amusement.

"I imagine," the Bust began, speaking more hurriedly than before, "that you are considering what it would take to silence me–no doubt with little consideration for my welfare. Be aware," it continued, "that it would be difficult for you to succeed, and certainly impossible for you to destroy me before I could summon help from the wizards working on this floor."

Hemlock was annoyed. The Bust was talking very loudly and she had, in fact, planned to try and smash it. But apparently it was cunning enough to make a rational argument for self-preservation. She knew that she couldn't risk any sort of alarm.

"I'm listening," Hemlock replied coldly, "but can you keep it down a little, please?" she asked glancing left and right quickly. Both hallways curved out of sight, so she knew that she couldn't be seen by anyone at the moment, but she would have little warning if someone or something came down either one of those hallways. And she was concerned that their conversation might be heard by someone well beyond the limits of her vision. She knew that that would be a problem.

"Anything for you," cooed the Bust at a more discreet timbre. "Do you know how long it's been since I've seen a beautiful woman?" it continued with an emphasis on the word long.

"What, the wizards haven't conjured up a female Bust for you to fawn over?"

"There may be venom pouring out of your mouth, but I'm just watching your lips move–so distracting. I'm not even sure what you said. I'm in a state of bliss just looking at you. Do tell me your name, won't you?" the voice took on a mock begging tone as it completed.

"As flattered as I am to have a lusty book end as an admirer, I have to get out of here. What's the best way to reach the third floor?" she asked in what she intended to be a level tone.

"Your name, please. Otherwise, I might have to yell for the wizards," the Bust responded lightly.

"Megan."

"Well, Megan, I can tell you how to get to the third floor using the back stairway which will, no doubt, aid in your aim to travel through the tower undetected. I can also tell you where the wizards are." The voice turned contemplative then: "Of course you'll still have to cross the workshop somehow–but you seem resourceful."

"Yes, and let me guess," responded Hemlock cynically, "you want something in return?"

"Well..." and the stone eyes flared for a moment. "I can only imagine the possibilities, were I not a gentleman. Fortunately for you, I am. We will share a drink, you and I. The wizards don't often let me drink–they're a boring lot of humdrum bookworms. Go and get two glasses and a bottle of rum. Don't worry–you will not be discovered–I know the comings and goings of the wizards and their minions."

"You are a minion, aren't you?" questioned Hemlock skeptically.

"Not exactly–the bane of my existence is boredom. The wizards torment me with it–leaving me in empty rooms with nothing going on. All I can do is sing to pass the time. If I sing for them and serve as a communication mechanism for them with my twin brother, then they teach me new songs or let me watch the experimental magic spells. That keeps me going and it keeps me cooperative, for the most part. But this," the Bust continued, "this is a rare pleasure. We must drink a toast, you and I. Go on Megan–get the rum and let's celebrate–if just for a moment."

Hemlock glared at the Bust. It was persuasive, and she felt chagrined that it had succeeded in casting itself in a sympathetic light. On the other hand, she considered how she would feel in its place. If what it said was true, then it probably was under the sway of the wizards much more than it was letting on. She considered that it could be trying to trap her in some way.

Why would it risk their wrath to help me?

"Why do you drink?" she asked as she walked toward the bar and retrieved the glasses and the liquor. "Does it affect you?"

"Oh yes," it replied. "I can enjoy spirits just like a man or woman would–perhaps more so since it hits me immediately, and lightens my unbearable burden for a time."

The Bust's explanation gave Hemlock an idea. She located the bottle of rum and brought two glasses over to the table where the Bust rested. Placing the glasses on the table she poured two generous shots of liquor as the eyes of the Bust looked on with evident anticipation. Leaving the bottle uncorked, she grabbed her glass and then looked at the Bust uncertainly.

"Yes, I'm afraid I will require some assistance in this affair," it quipped.

Putting her glass down, she used both hands to carefully place the glass to the lips of the Bust and tilted the glass gently as the thing drank. It closed its eyes and made a slight wince and then an exhalation of pleasure.

"Wonderful..." it began to say and then Hemlock made her move. She took the open bottle in hand with a quick motion. She covered the Bust's nose with her other hand and jammed the bottle into its mouth forcefully, applying pressure to tilt the wooden head backwards.

The Bust's eyes darted back and forth frantically and she saw its magically animated Adam's apple moving spasmodically as it gasped for air and got liquor instead.

She noted that the bottom of the Bust was green felt and she began to wonder exactly where the liquor was going. But she really didn't see any point to that line of thinking, and moved on.

When the bottle was nearly empty, she pulled it out of the Bust's mouth as it coughed liquor all over her hand.

She hoped that it had not lied about its reaction to alcohol. She quickly cupped her hand over its mouth as it began to scream and gripped the back of the head for leverage.

The Bust's jaws tried to bite her, but all they could really do was clatter together without effect. The eyes looked furious and then began to glaze over. After thirty seconds or so, the Bust's pupils fully dilated and after another thirty, the eyes closed and a pronounced snoring emanated from its nose.

She picked up the slumbering Bust and moved to a couch which had large faded leather pillows. She placed the Bust under one of them, which muffled its snoring fairly effectively.

A thought in the back of her mind surfaced. _The Bust hadn't bitten down on the bottle. Or had it?_ She reached out and she felt that there was magic in the structure of the bottle. _It must have been unbreakable._

She wondered whether she had known that. Or had she risked her entire plan on an assumption? Troubled, she concluded that she must have sensed it subconsciously.

She returned to the bar and uncorked another bottle. She split the contents of that newer bottle between the two and then replaced both of them in the bar.

She heard some commotion coming from the hall leading out of the room nearest to the table where the Bust had been.

Hemlock recalled that it had mentioned something about a workroom providing access to the third floor. That meant people–which in turn meant danger. But she believed that the Bust had no reason to lie to her about that being her best course.

Judging by the commotion, the workroom was likely down that rightmost hall.

She moved toward that exit, aware that her movement of the Bust would be noticed if anyone entered the room; but it was a risk that she had to take.

She mused that maybe people would think that the Bust had a practical joke played on it by another denizen of the Tower. Still, when it sobered, she knew that it would give her away. But she hoped that that would leave her plenty of time to do what she needed to do and make her escape.

She peered around the corner of the wall that met the rightmost hallway. The hallway beyond had a gentle curve to it and there was a door on either side of it, some distance from the room in which she stood. An increase in brightness could be seen toward the far end.

_The second circle was about using magic to do work_. _I guess this is some of their handiwork_.

She could hear what sounded like laughter coming down the hall ahead of her. Then there was a tremendous rumbling sound and a mechanical groan. Figuring this sound might serve as a good distraction to screen her movements, she crept forward down the hallway.

There were small brick alcoves recessed into the top of the walls where they met the ceiling, which appeared to be smooth granite. Oddly, she could see no shadow at all within these recesses.

Her first glimpse of the room at the end of the hall showed that it was, in fact, the workshop. It was large and seemed to span multiple floors of the Tower; it was brightly lit (even brighter than the hallway) and there were machines and scurrying workers moving on ladders which covered some large metal construct.

She moved forward a bit to get a full view. It was certainly several stories tall, and appeared to Hemlock to be deeper than the above ground portion of the Tower, and also rose above her for several floors. There was a balcony on the far end of the room at the same height as her current position, and another balcony on her upper right, which appeared to be on the third floor. The room contained several large metallic cylinders into which a variety of pipes snaked and intertwined. Dominating the room was a monstrous iron torso with human-shaped shoulders and arms, but without a head. It was located near the far wall of the room. She couldn't tell if it had legs because the balcony over which she peered did not allow her to see below the waist of the huge sculpture. The sculpted figure was that of an athletic male youth whose physical features were rendered in iron that was smooth and featureless except for seams where the limbs met and where large arrays of bolts and welds could be seen. Man–sized figures scurried about the huge torso on ladders and platforms, working on the seam areas.

A great chain, which was suspended from overhead, moved across Hemlock's field of vision suddenly, breaking her reverie. The noise of its passing almost drowned out a sudden drunken song which boomed through the room and elicited laughter at various points as it sang.

The voice was that of the Bust that Hemlock had just rendered unconscious, interspersed with a similar sounding, but annoyed voice, which kept telling the other to be silent.

Hadn't it mentioned a Brother?

She recalled that the Bust had mentioned that it could communicate by some means with a twin.

Hemlock reckoned that it was a good thing that the delivery of the song was slurred almost beyond recognition, because she realized with a sinking feeling that the Bust was singing about her.

Hemlock wondered whether the wizards even had the capacity to consider that an intruder could have entered their stronghold.

Turning aside her concern over the singing, she allowed the massive torso to catch her attention again–it was disturbing to her on many levels. It seemed to stand there like some looming leviathan and she imagined a malevolent head suddenly appearing.

Figures wearing robes scurried over the huge sculpture, directing some type of bestial humanoid figures who carried twin buckets suspended from large boards, which the beasts bore across their muscular shoulders.

"Disgusting," she muttered to herself, as she watched the bestial figures and wondered if they had once been men; for she knew that some wizards altered their bodies through magic. She considered that some of those that she observed might have actually been quite decent folk, but in her profession she had to play the odds–and the odds were that when you encountered a Wizard that the encounter was not going to have a happy (or peaceful) outcome.

"Donnut...let her beeeeaaauty deceive yaaaaaaa!" boomed the drunken voice of the Bust again.

"Stop it!" cried the similar voice in anger.

A chorus of laughter erupted again, at first sounding much like a raucous Tavern crowd. But then the bestial men joined in, their guttural voices lending a sinister note to the sum of the sound of the crowd, like dark paint did when poured into white: it discolored it irrevocably.

Hemlock heard the sound of a great chain being uncoiled then–and then the chain crashed down toward the floor of the room, sending a shudder through the great Tower itself.

In response, Hemlock dropped into a prone position and crawled up slowly to the edge of the balcony so that she could peer into the full depth of the room. Since she did not have the luxury of any shadows, she figured that this was her best chance at avoiding detection.

They had the head of the great sculpture on the floor of the large chamber, to her left, where it had been out of her view. The features of the head were not visible to her; only the back of the hair was visible and it portrayed a generous head of short, curly locks. A great hook at the end of the massive chain had been dropped onto the crown of the head where a lifting bar had been welded on–looking temporary in its incongruity with the masterwork quality of the remainder of the iron sculpture.

She saw what appeared to be a foreman, a larger beast–man who glowered over the rest as he took cues from a Wizard at his side. The Foreman began to bark out orders as teams of beast–men made their way quickly up the scaffolding to the top of the head. Behind them lagged two especially large brutes whose weight clearly strained the scaffolding. They were sent up on either side of the head.

Reaching the top, the brutes bore the tremendous weight of the hook on their backs in tandem with some lifting levers that the smaller beast–men manned in teams. They dragged the great hook toward its place on the lifting bar, when the foreman gave his cry to begin.

Several wizards looked on in their brightly colored robes, looking attentively at the work being performed and often gesturing with concern to the Foreman. The brutes soon completed their task with a final grunt as the hook took purchase on the lifting bar.

At a signal from the Foreman, some of the metallic cylinders that Hemlock saw in the corner of the chamber began to glow green, and huge white plumes of steam hissed from their upper extremities.

The great chain was tensioned and began to lift the hook. The sculpted head began to rise and as it did so, it rotated so that the features came into view. The features depicted the face of a perfectly beautiful male youth, with a strong, chiseled face, but one which had not yet reached the full growth of maturity. It had a sneering smile on its face which Hemlock immediately thought to be quite obscene.

She asked herself what she was witnessing here. She considered whether this was some monster that would soon be unleashed on the City?

Her mind quickly diverted from that line of thinking, at the behest of some analytical part of her brain which had identified an opportunity.

She was looking out over a sheer drop of almost fifty yards, from a thin balcony that extended out of an arched doorway. Before her, it appeared that there was some sort of central walkway that looked like it could rotate to her position– but it was currently rotated toward the opposite side of the room where another exit lay, across from her position.

She hadn't noticed any controls or other means to rotate the walkway (nor did she entertain any notions that an action like that could possibly go unnoticed).

What she had subconsciously noted was that the path of the head on the chain would pass quite near to her position. Judging by the sweeping path that the head was taking to reach the torso, it looked like the head would afford good cover and a way to get across the room undetected.

The head was hollow and that the mouth and nose were hollowed out. She believed that if the rotation of the head played out as she anticipated, she would have an opportunity to jump into the great mouth and crawl up into the nose before the rotation of the head would expose her to anyone in the chamber.

_It's crazy, but this might be my only chance_ , she decided.

The head loomed closer, and Hemlock was happy to see it casting a great shadow on the wall as it proceeded. She hoped that the shadow would help to conceal her jump.

The arc of the screeching, rotating chain soon reached her and the shadow of the suspended head covered her position. It somehow managed to make the hallway feel dark despite the fact that it was still brightly lit by some mysterious force.

The great mouth was before her then, facing her just as she had planned, and she jumped–feeling a bit like a damned soul being drawn into the mouth of some dark Overlord as she did so.

She landed hard against the polished iron, its masterwork smoothness nearly proving her undoing. Her feet completely lost their purchase on the lower lips of the large mouth opening, and she nearly fell; she was unsure whether she simply would have fallen to her death or into some dangling position from which she would have been unavoidably visible to those below.

Fortune was with her at that moment, however, as she managed to grip an inner nostril's edge, hang by one arm for a moment, regain the purchase of her feet, and then draw herself up and into the nose of the sculpture.

She noticed that the impact of her jump had caused the head to sway back and forth a little. She hoped that the effect was subtle enough to not warrant notice, as the motion of the chain was relatively jerky.

She also noticed the wizards and the beast–men in more detail as she looked down on them through the hollow neck of the head.

Some of the wizards seemed scared of the beast–men. These looked frail and "bookish," had clean robes, and some even had an appearance of kindness. But other wizards, leaner types in worn robes with red sashes, some balding and many carrying serrated staves or short swords, looked upon the beast–men with utter contempt. The brutes were deferential to all of the wizards.

After a few more moments, the huge head rotated into a position near the torso and Hemlock surveyed the jump that she was going to have to make. She realized that it was going to be trickier than she had thought. She planned to wait until the head was nearly joined to the body (she presumed this was the intention of the wizards– otherwise she was going to be in a desperate situation).

Once the head was lowered close, she was going to have to slip down and catch the edge of the Torso's neck, quickly scramble around toward the walkway, jump down, and then dart across the walkway and into the doorway that she had seen from her former vantage point, which was now across the workshop from her.

She knew that it was going to be a physically demanding sequence of moves. She felt confident that she could do it easily if she were fresh and with a good night's sleep under her belt, but she knew that she was getting tired. She had been through a great deal already this night...

Fortunately, the moment of action was upon her before her mind could become too unraveled by doubt. Because the head was rotating, the wizards had to pause it for a time above the torso. This made it relatively easy for one of Hemlock's skill to pull off the maneuvers she had planned.

She felt reasonably sure, as she darted through the doorway and into another oddly lit passage, that she had exposed herself to the smallest possible window of detection. She hoped that it had been small enough.

...

For the second time that night, reptilian eyes registered an inexplicable hint of motion. This time, however, there was a psychologically additive effect created by the repetition of the stimulus, and it made its way into the consciousness of a male, humanoid figure with the scaly body and head of a lizard. It had been talking, as it was wont to do in its heavily accented manner of speech, when suddenly its words trailed off into a hiss. Those that it had been speaking to on the balcony of the third floor of the workshop did not interject. They knew better than that (and one of their number bore the substantial mental scars resulting from a prior transgression to prove it).

"Something is amiss, follow me," spoke the Lizard Man after a moment. He then walked off purposefully, the others following dutifully in tow, careful to avoid the long lizard tail which swept out from under his bright yellow wizard robe.

##  Chapter Four

Safreon strode across the dusty thoroughfare known as Martle Boulevard with an arm to his face to shield him from the sting of the blowing sand. Though the hour was late, there was a steady trickle of foot traffic moving about: mostly drunks and other ill-doers, and the pickpockets and thieves that preyed upon them.

He was agitated and his large brow was furrowed in concern. He had gone home after Hemlock had relieved his watch. He was restless, however, as he lay in his chamber listening to the howling winds blow through the Warrens, and thinking of his argument with the girl. He tried to distract himself by working on an alchemical project. But as he sat before the glass jars and beakers, pouring, measuring, mixing, and reading from ancient tomes, he grew increasingly ill at ease.

Finally, he surrendered to an urge to find Hemlock and make sure she wasn't still angry with him. Safreon knew better than to ignore his forceful hunches–although they sometimes amounted to nothing. Grabbing his staff, he left his modest home and strode into the night.

He moved through the neighborhood in a pattern designed to cover the majority of Hemlock's favored monitoring positions. He also used their call, which was an owl's hoot intoned in a special pattern.

After a few hours without any sign of her, Safreon became truly concerned. This brought him to Martle Boulevard and to the doorstep of their favorite pub: the Red Imp Inn.

As he pushed open the heavy oaken door of the pub, the characteristic smells of the Inn overtook him. A heavy scent of smoked beef mingled with beer and tobacco greeted his nose. Under normal circumstances, he always savored this smell, for this was where he, Hemlock, and other friends and allies typically gathered for merriment and relaxation.

He noted a few slumping forms at the bar–none that he would consider friends–and the weary looking barkeep and proprietor of the place.

The barkeep was an irascible old woman named Marta Martle. Safreon recalled that her family had owned the Inn for several generations and that the street had been named in honor of her grandfather who had led a notable monster slaying expedition, which had met with stunning success.

Unfortunately, few of the virtues of her forebears seemed to have been passed down to Marta. She was unfriendly and at times, decidedly hostile. She viewed her lot in life with disdain; she lived each day as if she carried a great burden which one sensed that she yearned to unshoulder. But the one virtue that she had inherited was a strong work ethic and sense of duty. She couldn't bear the thought of being remembered as the Martle who had lost the Inn and the family's position of honor in the Warrens. It kept her going, despite her poorly disguised distaste for the role of inn keeper. Making matters worse, her only son was an unbridled drunkard, so Marta had no immediate prospects for passing on her duties.

As Safreon approached the bar, Marta eyed him coolly.

"Have you seen Hemlock tonight?" he asked hurriedly, immediately regretting not putting on an air of normalcy first.

"What's got you all tied up in knots?" asked Marta suspiciously.

"No matter," Safreon responded in a more controlled manner. "I have a bit of news to tell her and I thought I could save some time by asking around before I begin to search."

"I think you have me mistaken for a City clerk. I have to attend to my paying customers," Marta mumbled as she began to stride down the bar.

"Perhaps a tip would loosen your tongue?" Safreon broke in, as he tossed a few silver pieces onto the lacquered bar top.

Marta glanced at the silver and turned back to Safreon with a penetrating glance. "You want this information real bad–but you're paying me real good–so here it is: I saw Hemlock tonight; about two hours ago. She came in and ordered a drink and then left. Didn't talk to no one. There you have it–that's all I know." She started to walk off again, cupping the silver in her hand.

Safreon grabbed her arm and took stock of her with an incendiary gaze: "Did you notice anything... unusual?" he asked and the final word hung in the air like challenge.

Marta glanced at Safreon's hand on her arm. He knew that it was not something that she would have normally tolerated, but something about Safreon's gaze held her in his sway.

"Well, there was one thing..." she began, as some other bar customers took notice of their exchange.

"She had a cloak on and all, but I saw her bend and it looked like she had on a pair of them wings like those strange Bird Men like to wear," Marta responded with her eyes cast skyward in recollection.

Safreon didn't need more than a moment to be gripped with a terrible feeling, bordering on terror. "You mean the settlers from Tanna Varra?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, them bluish folk. Now get your hands off me before I call Horace!" Marta spit, recovering her usual demeanor.

Safreon recoiled and sat at the bar for a moment, mouth agape, considering the implications of this information. He knew that Hemlock desperately wanted to move against the Wizards, and he had to accept that her possession of the wings could be more than mere coincidence.

He hadn't yet confided in her that he had a contact within their ranks, and that certain political factions within the wizards were struggling to control the future of the Guild. Safreon knew that the wizards could be a threat to the Warrens. In fact, he even suspected that they were responsible for the faltering magic in the neighborhood of late. He was working with his contact in the Guild to discover if that was true.

Yet he hadn't shared this information with Hemlock. Despite her burgeoning powers, he still worried about her headstrong nature. He feared that she lacked the self-control, at her relatively young age, to use her power responsibly, and so he often delivered information and training to her in measured doses. He felt it kept pace with her maturation process.

As he sat on that barstool in the Red Imp Inn, however, he was assailed with the undeniable feeling that he had made a grievous error in judgment in not sharing the information with Hemlock. He had seen the waves of worry that had passed over her each time their conversation had turned to her sister and her struggles with her health. And he recalled now the determined look in her eyes as she had proposed moving directly against the wizards.

There was no reason for Hemlock to need those Tanna Varran wings besides as a tool to cross the Moat of Acid surrounding the Tower of the Wizard Guild! She had moved forward with her plan without him!

Suddenly, he surged off the barstool and sprinted for the door–knocking over a tipsy bar patron in the process, who swore before he recognized the source of his upheaval.

There was only one way that Safreon could realistically help Hemlock, and it could only work if Hemlock had delayed the execution of her plan or, by some miracle, had actually entered the Tower and gone undetected up to this point. He knew that he had to contact the wizard known as Gwineval, and hope that he would be willing and able to get to Hemlock before any of the other inhabitants of the Tower discovered her.

...

The wizard Gwineval was concerned. He had noticed an unusual occurrence within the secure walls of the Tower. If his senses hadn't deceived him (and since his "augmentation," they had been so acute as to warrant little doubt that he had seen something), there was someone or something loose in the Tower.

His reptilian tongue flicked over rows of serrated teeth as he walked purposefully through the great new Oberon distillery that had recently been completed in the Tower–his two subordinates fearfully in tow. He felt a twinge of guilt for having mistreated them recently. Lately, he was having violent flares of anger–no doubt a side effect of his recent transformation. As a Wizard of the fifth circle, he had chosen to devote himself to the discipline of magical body augmentation and conversion. He had chosen to augment himself with reptilian abilities, for he fancied the cunning and calm nature of the lizard. And he had always feared water and had hoped to be cured of that fear, which he was. The transformation had many effects: most positive, but some undeniably negative as well. The ironic magnification of his anger and a general loss of patience were those new qualities that he considered negative, and they surprised him since he had expected an opposite effect in these areas.

As he walked, he couldn't help but marvel at the distillery. There were vast numbers of cast iron boilers used to purify the Oberon – huge pumps to move it from stage to stage in the process, and enchanted bellows that would soon rain a byproduct of Green Dragon fire down over the boiling vats to distill the Oberon down to its powdery essence. All of these machines were idle–merely waiting for the final component of the wizards' plans to increase the Oberon harvest to reach maturity.

His thoughts turned to the history of the Oberon for a moment. The wizards laced their food with the powder and at times, even consumed it undiluted. It was like consuming raw magical energy–an energy that had to be expended, lest it begin to stress the body of the Wizard like a trapped demon spirit. A Wizard fully dosed on Oberon could harness ten times the magical power that he could without Oberon. And the most powerful could harness ten times again that power for specific types of particularly powerful effects.

The City was reliant on magic and the wizards already controlled access to the most potent magic in the Realm, despite the altruistic leanings of well-intentioned wizards like himself.

Their plan was to use new Harvester golems to fully exploit the Oberon supply in the Witch Crags. Some wizards had argued for patience in the pursuit of the final stages of the plan. Others, emboldened by prior successes, favored immediate and aggressive use of the harvesting machines.

Looking at this part of the vast operation nearing completion, Gwineval felt confident that once the wizards perfected their new harvesting techniques, all magic in the realms of the City would fall under their complete control. They would have enough Oberon to power detection spells that could spread for a radius of the entire realm. They would persecute anyone who used magic without direct consent of the Guild. There were plans to establish local enforcement networks to monitor and quickly react to any unregulated magic use. All spell casting would be completely regulated and the real threat of enforcement would provide complete compliance. Their power would transcend all other powers in the City. It would only be a matter of time before they enjoyed the full benefits of magical hegemony.

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, cloth 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.

Safreon had said that she was a promising pupil, but it seemed that he had understated her abilities. Gwineval again felt his pulse surge at the thought of Safreon and the Wand of the Imperator. If he truly possessed this item, and knew how to use its power, then he wielded a power that could rival the might of the most powerful wizards in the Wizard Guild! These were the Seventh Circle wizards, who aside from their lone representative in the Tower, were said to still exist in seclusion and in defiance of the passage of many more years than a natural body could possibly endure. The Seventh Circle wizards were said to exist predominantly in spirit form and to have lived for centuries. Gwineval wasn't sure how powerful the Seventh Circle wizards were, beyond their new youthful leader, Falignus. But what he knew of the power of the Wand gave him confidence that their power, no matter how great, could not be very much beyond that of the Wand. His mind began to consider whether the Wand would enable him to defy Falignus and the tyranny of the Seventh Circle and the Crimson Order, but he quickly chastised himself for becoming too hopeful.

Gwineval considered that he had to get to the top of the Chamber to meet Hemlock. The noise of the machinery would hopefully shield them from unwanted observation. Safreon had warned him that she was headstrong–but Gwineval felt confident that he could reason with her once he called her by name and mentioned her friend.

...

Hemlock reached the upper causeway after a harrowing climb. Her limbs were exhausted and she wasn't sure that she had been very stealthy. She had managed to put some distance between her and the room where she hoped the mysterious, handsome Wizard still rested undisturbed.

She took in her surroundings: the causeways all led to a sizable room which only spanned a single floor. Several large machines were connected to the huge chains which connected with the cogs and gears on the machines. Though some of the machines clearly were in operation–she could see spinning apparatus and whiffs of smoke or steam being expelled from several of them–she could not hear any noise. The eerie quiet of the lower room, only punctuated by the creaks and groans of the chains, extended all the way up here.

Moving silently and low to the walkway, Hemlock approached the room.

As she stepped across the threshold her senses were assailed by the sudden noise of the machines churning and expelling gasses with many a savage hiss.

This caused a surge in her nerves and she sprung over to a large iron cauldron which held a quantity of a greasy, dark liquid.

Her eyes discerned motion then, from the opposite side of the chamber.

A door opened and in strode a figure in a long yellow robe. She noticed something odd about the gait of the individual first: a strange motion of the head with each step forward. Also, there was an unusual structure to the head: a protrusion of the jaw.

Hemlock realized then that there was not a human figure under that robe–but some monstrous parody of a man.

She could see the face clearly now, as the beast approached her position. Her pulse raced and she took in the demonically deformed features with the cool detachment that she often felt in moments of true peril. The mouth was large and dominated the face, and it was filled with a row of small, sharp teeth on both the upper and lower jaw. There were two nasal holes, oval shaped and angled, and they were close to the mouth. Two large glassy eyes peered toward her position under the shelter of fleshy eyelids. The complexion was greenish and scaled.

The creature stopped short and raised its arms as if to parlay. In fact, it appeared to be speaking after some fashion but a loud hiss from one of the nearby machines drowned out the sound.

In an instant, Hemlock drew a knife and dashed at the creature. She closed the distance of twenty yards in mere seconds and the creature appeared startled as it still was trying to communicate.

She threw herself upward and thrust the knife with both hands, going for the throat.

The creature was amazingly quick, however, and managed to throw itself backwards with astonishing speed. Her knife tip caught the point of its lower jaw, but it was an inconsequential wound.

As she drew her arms down and into her body, the creature's tail came around and struck a powerful blow to her right shoulder – causing her to careen sideways into one of the machines. She impacted with moderate force, her clothing shielding her flesh from a scalding impact.

She dropped into a fighting stance and regained her balance as the creature again seemed to be trying to communicate.

As she prepared to strike once more, she made out a familiar word despite the heavy distorting effect of the creature's mouth and large forked tongue.

"...Safreon."

She paused, but didn't let down her guard. She analyzed the figure for any lapse in its defenses as she struggled to understand its odd form of speech.

"...sent by Safreon of the Warrens," she managed to understand as the creature spoke.

"What about him?" she demanded recalling that lizards usually had soft and vulnerable bellies.

"Hemlock, I have been sent by Safreon to rescue you from the wizards," continued the creature in its odd, falsetto hisses.

"Why should I believe that?" she continued in a level tone.

"Because it is your only chance at survival," replied the creature with a tone of impatience.

"What are you? You wear a Wizard's robe–aren't you a Wizard?" Hemlock asked.

"I am a Wizard and also a friend of Safreon. We have spoken in the last year about affairs in the Warrens and also events in the Wizard Tower. He contacted me tonight when he deduced your foolish intentions to attack the tower," explained the lizard man in a lecturing tone at which Hemlock inwardly bristled.

She was becoming uncertain about the situation and this led to a feeling of extreme discomfort. If she trusted this...monster... to be a friend of Safreon then she was putting her life in its hands.

Am I ready to do that?

She felt confident that she could kill it–but it did claim to be a Wizard which would introduce unknown dangers.

"You obviously know things about me," she replied "but that doesn't mean that you are an ally. You may well be lying."

"We don't have time for this – I fear you have been detected already by others not so friendly as I. There are other watchful eyes in the Tower and they would not treat you as kindly as I will. Safreon has revealed to me that he holds a powerful magical artifact that I greatly desire to learn more about. That is the only reason I am risking my life to try and rescue you from certain death. Safreon made this bargain with me just minutes ago," responded the creature coolly.

Hemlock always felt secure when she felt that she understood a situation and that she could control it. Her mind was trying relentlessly to maintain a grasp on this encounter but it was like trying to grasp sand with her hands–the harder that she tried to grasp, the more she felt control slip through her fingers.

"What is the plan?" she asked, stalling for more time to assess the loyalty of the creature.

"The plan is that we will meet..." began the Lizard Man when Hemlock sensed the opening. Her mind was reeling, she felt powerless and the opening was too enticing–it was like she was drowning and thrashing and then her arm hit a piece of debris floating in the ocean, after a shipwreck. Her mind could not resist trying to regain control of the situation by grasping at the opportunity.

Her knife left her hand in a motion that seemed almost supernaturally fast.

The creature tracked it instantly, but the aim was too precise for it to dodge it altogether. The best that it could do was to twist and take the blow in the shoulder instead of the torso. Green blood jetted from the wound as the knife bit deep and Hemlock sprinted in for the kill, another knife from her left leg holster immediately in hand.

She slashed across her body and then as the creature faded back away from the slash, she caught it with a punch to the belly, which caused it to emit a hissing cry sounding much like one of the machines around which they fought.

She saw its right arm moving rhythmically then and felt the alignment of gathering magical energy.

Dropping hard to a knee, she thrust up and disrupted the motion and felt the gathering spell energy dissipate.

She saw fear in those inhuman eyes then. She always saw that when the end was near for an opponent and it always made her try for a mercifully quick end when mortal force was required–as she judged that it would be in this situation.

The creature began to attack then–slashing with its right claw–but it was wounded already and while it may have been a match for her speed before–it was not in its current condition.

It used its tail effectively to slow her attacks down, but she was able to dodge it and she knew the creature was beginning to wear down under the force of her withering assault.

Its robe was half covered in green blood now and pools of blood on the floor were becoming hazardous.

They traded attacks and defenses, parries and countermoves for several seconds.

As she feinted upwards and redirected a blow at the creature's thigh, her eye caught the motion of the tail countering at an impossible angle. It happened too quickly for her to fully register her surprise, but she tumbled to her right to avoid what she feared could be a stunning blow from the tail and a reversal to her fortunes in the combat. She realized, too late, that the tail was no longer attached to the Wizard's body and that a clawed fist was moving with tremendous force aimed irrevocably at her head. She reached a final conclusion before a flash of white exploded over her senses and then everything went black:

Somehow the creature has detached its tail from its body.

##  Chapter Six

Safreon turned his head slowly toward the other presence in his ramshackle workshop. Amid the scattered boxes, glass jars, beakers and shelves full of moldering volumes and tomes stood a man–sized porcine figure with lolling eyes and a foaming, bestial mouth.

The creature stood to its full seven feet of height, fighting, as it did so, against the fatigue that it felt from the great volume of magical energy that had been drawn from it. This energy had powered the spell that had allowed Safreon to communicate with the wizard Gwineval, despite the myriad of magical wards and defenses that enshrouded the Wizard Tower.

Safreon had a fleeting observation: that it was fortunate that he had summoned a creature as seemingly mindless as this demon, yet with enough magical power to allow him to weave the intricate magecraft required to accomplish the message. All demons were innately magical creatures, but the most dangerous of them could harness their power and cast their own spells.

Safreon ground his teeth anxiously as he waited for his spell of communication to fully dissipate and watched the Demon grow bolder as it regained its power. Having reached the safe conclusion of the prior spell, Safreon delivered a swift kick toward a wooden stand which released a metal peg at floor level that was tied to a rope. The rope rose toward the ceiling holding a complex system of ropes and pulleys in a suspended stasis.

Now freed from the restraining force of the peg, two suspended rings of rope, upon which were tied an array of small jars, dropped from the ceiling. Some careened and shattered off of the still oblivious demonic form, while others impacted the floor and shattered with a violent impact. Most of the pinkish liquid content of the shattered jars ended up splattering over the body of the Demon.

The creature squealed in pain, and alarm. Its cries then turned to anger as it instinctively realized that the spell forming would not allow it to take revenge on Safreon. In moments the creature was enclosed in a hazy, pink, shimmering globe from which it could not move or escape despite its repeated and enraged attempts.

Safreon looked on with satisfaction, still conscious of his luck that this Demon didn't appear capable of casting the spells required to break his magical snare that would soon send the Demon back to its infernal home plane.

Casting a wary eye toward the Demon periodically, Safreon quickly moved to a shelf and pulled out an iron shod chest that was about two feet wide. He made a motion with his hand and uttered a single syllable and the chest opened with a click.

Behind him the Demon was becoming even more twisted with rage as the inside of the pinkish globe was alternatively filled with fire, lightning and even gushes of lava. The Demon was so mindless in its rage that it had torn its own arm partially out of socket and the arm hung lamely from the beast's left side, as it flailed in doomed agony.

Safreon placed the open chest on a work table and reached inside toward a vast number of small glass vials, each about the size of a man's thumb. Grasping one and then opening it, he drew it forth and held it, arm outstretched, toward the pinkish globe and the trapped demon.

He grabbed a flask from his pocket and opened it, dripping a small amount of a fizzling pink liquid into the small vial he held.

As he finished, the large pink sphere containing the beast began to swirl more violently. Safreon noted that a bright point of light shone out from within the large pink orb and the creature recoiled in terror from it. The light seemed to draw part of the beast into it, and then with a loud popping sound, the entirety of the beast and the pink globe were drawn into the small, bright pink globe. The small pink globe, shining brightly, floated over to the small bottle held by Safreon, and slid into the neck of it.

Safreon deftly corked the top of the bottle and turned in a practiced motion and threw the bottle into the fireplace, where it burst with a loud bang and emitted a foul smoke–the majority of which mercifully floated up the open flue and into the chimney.

As he completed his work, Safreon reflected on the price of using the Wand of the Imperator as a magical power source. The risk of unleashing an uncontrolled demon was high, unless the Wand was expertly used in controlled conditions. When one used the Wand as Safreon did, it called forth a demon to the mortal plane which could be easily exploited for magical power during the period soon after its summoning, because the creature was weak and disoriented from the journey from its home plane. After a time the demon would strengthen, and unless proper precautions were taken, it would then be unleashed to wreak havoc upon mortals other than the user of the Wand and those he directly protected with special corollary spells. For those of evil inclination, this rampaging demon was merely a chaotic side effect of the Wand's use. But for one who had devoted his life to ridding the world of evil, this was something that had to be avoided at all costs.

Safreon believed that he could use the Wand in relative safety as long as his luck and skill in controlling the type of Demon that he summoned held out. He also counted on his ability to control the environment in which the summoning took place. He needed to have his intricate alchemical tools at his disposal to ensure his safety and the safety of those around him when he attempted to harness the considerable power of the Wand.

His thoughts darkened as they turned to the bargain that he had made with the reptilian wizard, Gwineval. He had promised to deliver the Wand to him for inspection in exchange for aid in rescuing Hemlock from the Wizard Tower. The exact terms of this agreement had not been discussed, but he assumed that Gwineval would demand access to the Wand–at least temporarily–in exchange for Hemlock. He believed that Gwineval was a well-intentioned being _. But could he be trusted with that much power?_ Safreon was briefly overcome by a dark thought: _would Gwineval attempt to seize the Wand if it was shown to him?_

As the final traces of the foul smoke that had been emitted from the explosion of the jar in the fireplace dissipated, Safreon considered his path forward. He had to go to the Wizard Tower in the hope that he could gain the safe return of Hemlock. What would happen during the rescue was not clear to him and he knew instinctively that no divination spell in his power would reveal the answer to that question.

...

Falignus strode slowly among the great iron spheres in the chamber known as the Room of Measurement, looking around in slow measured sweeps. He knew that it was foolish to make such a visual inspection, but it was the only thing that he could think to do–because he had lost the trail of the young thief.

Again, he moved his arms in arcing motions from an extended position toward his eyes and muttered an incantation. This simple detection spell should have revealed her position quite easily–especially since he now possessed the dirty rag which she had left in the Room of Meditation.

Something was preventing him from getting a reading.

Cursing under his breath, he considered his options. If she was captured by another wizard or killed outright it would be regrettable.

Even though her capture or death would meet his political objectives of startling a complacent and ancient Guild out of what he considered an irresponsible withdrawal from the affairs of the outside world, it would mean the death of an individual who interested him more than any other that he had ever met.

Her powers were obviously impressive despite the fact that she was so young. If he could form an alliance with this girl, she would be the perfect person to run an intelligence organization for the Wizard Guild.

Falignus weighed whether the girl was important enough to risk his own reputation in an attempt to secure her safety. He knew that if he was observed trying to facilitate her concealment that it could be dangerous for him. Furthermore, he reasoned that it potentially could even jeopardize the reputation the Crimson Order, the political faction which he led, and perhaps even his membership in the Wizard Guild itself–and by extension his very life. Of course, if he was discovered, there would be a good chance that he could make it look like he was in the process of subduing her. But there would still be a slim chance that some uncontrolled occurrence could implicate him.

The thought also entered his mind (and he was taken aback that he even considered it) that the girl might pose a real threat to the Guild. She appeared to be very capable and her current immunity to detection implied either that she was a wizard herself or that she had magical help from some source. He considered whether she could be an agent from the City Senate, the principal rival to the Wizard Guild for power within the City.

His hand grasped his prominent jaw line, descending and squeezing lightly as his fingers moved down toward his chin.

Desire.

The word reverberated through his mind.

Despite the risks, and irrespective of his motives, he decided to try and find the girl. The first step was a spell of major detection which many of the higher circle wizards might become aware of, depending on what they were doing at the time. He understood that this course of action could set in motion a chain of events that might lead to confrontation, and even direct conflict of some sort–potentially involving him directly. He found himself feeling excited at the thought of that, and at the thought of her.

...

Hemlock first became conscious of the humidity in the air, as she regained consciousness. Her first attempts at movement were met with an implacable resistance and this jolted her mind to full alertness.

She sat in a wicker chair and her eyes stung as sweat dripped down from her brow. She could blink her eyes after some effort and then she was able to move her eyes toward the figure of the reptilian Wizard who had defeated her. He sat in a chair across from her and regarded her coolly. She noted that he had disrobed and wore only a linen wrap around his waist. His upper torso was fully scaled, but there were traces of human skin in his abdominal area. She noted with surprise that the shoulder wound that she had inflicted on him looked mostly healed. She could see a glistening salve had been applied to the area of the wound.

She quickly noted the contents of the room and the fact that there was only a single exit. The room was large: maybe thirty to forty feet across but irregularly shaped. One wall was larger than the other and both were curved gently, like many rooms in the tower that she had seen. There was a small artificial pond in one corner of the room and some ferns and other plants surrounded it, giving the room a quasi–outdoor feel. In other areas there were bookshelves, an odd looking wicker mattress, and a small ornate marble basin, which rested on a raised dais. The chairs in which she and the Wizard sat were close to the dais.

"So, you awaken. We must continue the conversation that I was trying to have with you before you rashly decided to try and kill me," the Wizard stated matter-of-factly.

Hemlock struggled to move her jaw muscles in response and her tongue felt swollen and tingly. Her body was still mostly numb. An ache was growing inside her head near where the Wizard had struck her.

"I was forced to immobilize you magically even after you lost consciousness. I had to ensure that we could avoid detection and return to a safe location. Unfortunately, we now have lost precious time that we should have used to prepare your escape. Our escape route will now be much more perilous," continued the Wizard.

Hemlock cleared her throat and prepared to speak, but the Wizard continued.

"My name is Gwineval. As I stated before, I am an acquaintance of Safreon who I know to be your friend and ally. If you recall, I had explained that he had contacted me magically and advised me of your break-in tonight. Together we have planned a means for your escape–a plan which we can still execute, provided I have your cooperation."

"N...Need proof," Hemlock managed to reply feebly.

Gwineval considered this for a moment and then replied, "I had anticipated that you might require proof. We wouldn't want you to attack me again in transit to the rendezvous point."

"I cannot give you absolute proof without risking detection from other wizards in the Tower. The best I can do is show you part of a conversation that Safreon and I had earlier tonight concerning your entry into the Tower."

Gwineval stood and strode toward Hemlock.

Hemlock frantically tried to make her limbs move but was only able to generate a twitch in her arms.

"You must learn to discern friends from enemies," lectured Gwineval as he strode behind Hemlock's chair, effortlessly lifted her by the armpits, and then carried her onto the dais, holding her near the marble basin.

Hemlock felt the telltale gathering of magical energy; energies of divination and recollection.

Soon murky images and distorted sounds began to become apparent in the waters of the basin. Then she was able to see Safreon's features and hear his voice speaking to an unknown entity. She only heard Safreon's side of the conversation.

As she listened, it became clear that Safreon was bargaining for her escape with someone. Safreon also mentioned something about a wand and she noted great reluctance in his demeanor as he did so. What was the significance of this Wand of the Imperator?

Soon the conversation ended and the image faded. Gwineval returned her to her seat and paced around the room as he spoke.

"So now you have seen the proof. I used this basin of water to communicate with Safreon. The images reflected in the water linger for a time after they are first shown and can be recalled. I was able to use that afterimage to show you the conversation. Since my part of the conversation was directed to another location, I was not able to reproduce that," he said.

"What is the Wand of the Imperator?" Hemlock asked, her voice beginning to return to normal although it was still sounding a bit raspy.

Gwineval's head turned sharply at that question and he did not respond immediately. Seeming like he had reached some inner decision then, he spoke:

"The Imperator, as you may have heard through legend and folklore, ruled from the City in the Age prior to our own. This was prior to the City Council, and the Imperator ruled with absolute power. He was a wizard, but his power soon eclipsed even that of the Wizard Guild, and he ruled independently of it," he explained.

"Still, he was only one man, and although his magical skill was greater than any other man or woman in the land, there were limits to what he could do; there were limits to what information that he could be aware of and what actions he could take throughout the realm of the City, and perhaps more importantly, outside of it."

"He decided to empower certain loyal advisors with part of his power so that he could better govern the land. He spent seven years researching the best manner in which to grant this power to these individuals. He wanted to do it in a way which would maximize their power but at the same time limit their ability to directly confront him in the event that their loyalty faltered," Gwineval continued.

"In the end, seven Wands of the Imperator were created. Each granted the bearer great magical power by allowing them to boost the power of, or even make permanent, spells that they cast. The Imperator protected himself against their power by building in a weakness into the Wands: the magic of the Wands could not affect the wearer of a magical Crown, which the Imperator kept for himself."

"This was an effective system of rule and the Imperator and his seven Sub–Imperators lived for hundreds of years before even the great magic of the Imperator failed. One day, the Imperator and each Sub–Imperator fell and crumbled to dust."

"A period of great chaos and upheaval followed that event. Much knowledge was lost and the few who had enough magical power to wield the Wands of the Imperator fought amongst themselves in great magical duels which shattered the City. Eventually the Wands were lost."

"So it seems that your friend Safreon has in his possession one of the greatest magical artifacts ever known," Gwineval concluded.

Hemlock was astounded.

_Could Safreon wield such a power without me knowing?_ she wondered to herself.

She had never seen Safreon wield power like that–and she felt that if he did indeed have a wand such as Gwineval had described, that he would have used it to further his ambitions of thwarting evil acts in the City.

"You do understand how unbelievable this all sounds?" Hemlock asked in a slow tone, as she managed to speak normally for the first time.

"I do. It is well nigh unbelievable to me as well, rest assured," replied the reptilian Wizard.

"I seek to study and understand this Wand. Safreon has promised me this in exchange for helping you to escape. What we must do is to ascend to the top of the Tower where Safreon plans to meet us by some means. Once there, he will take you with him with my aid. I will suppress the defenses and wards of the Tower for a time while you escape."

Hemlock was able to move her fingers now: to wiggle them slowly.

Gwineval observed this and spoke in earnest.

"Hemlock, you must trust me this time. We cannot meet Safreon unless we work in concert. You are caught in the middle of a hornet's nest and won't survive long without help. I am risking much in aiding you directly."

Hemlock considered everything that she had been told and though she did not completely trust the wizard Gwineval, she had seen enough evidence to support his story that she now believed that he was telling her the truth. She also burned with the knowledge that she might yet fulfill her ambition to destroy whatever glowed in the night at the top of the Wizard Tower–and siphoned the magical energy from the Warrens. She thought for a second about her sister and her suffering.

"Gwineval, I trust you. I apologize for attacking you before hearing you out," Hemlock said in her best diplomatic tone.

Gwineval seemed satisfied by her statement and with a nod she regained full control of her body. She grimaced, as the magical numbness had been masking the pain in her head where a large bruise had formed.

Noting her pain, Gwineval reached for an open jar containing a salve. By its appearance, it was the same one that he had used on his shoulder.

"Let me apply this ointment to ease your wound," he suggested.

...

"I'm fairly certain that Falignus is aware of your presence in the Tower," stated Gwineval.

Hemlock gazed at him through the hazy green glow of pure Oberon fluid through which they both traveled upward, slowly, encased in cylindrical bubbles of air. Gwineval had conjured the person sized air pockets by reading from a magic scroll.

They left Gwineval's room shortly after Hemlock fully recovered control of her limbs. Hemlock related her encounter with the sleeping wizard in the weightless room. Gwineval's already urgent demeanor actually tightened noticeably after that exchange. He explained to her that they needed to gain the upper floors by unconventional means since the sleeping wizard, who was apparently very powerful, could be attempting to locate her magically and via agents whom he could station at strategic points throughout the Tower. They passed through a few doors leading toward the interior of the Tower. They were able to gain access to a chamber that appeared to be similar to the interior rooms of the first floor, which Hemlock had seen. It was filled with machinery, plumbing and other sundries. In this chamber, there were great pipes which fed tanks of processed Oberon (as Gwineval explained) on the seventh floor of the Tower. Gwineval had read his spell aloud and then he had opened a man-sized hatch, which was accessed by turning a large iron wheel several times and releasing a latch.

She stood in front as he opened the hatch, and the air pocket surrounding her prevented any liquid from spilling out. She struggled against the pressure of the liquid, but was eventually able to enter the large tube, which could easily fit two abreast.

Gwineval followed, closing the hatch from the inside, and then they found themselves floating upwards in a gentle motion. They had already passed one hatch on the way up and another was approaching. As they rose, she considered Gwineval's statement about the sleeping wizard. The thought that the attractive wizard was after her scared her and thrilled her at the same time.

She also recalled the automaton Gnome called Merit–the maintenance room that they had just left having triggered her memory of him ( _or should I say it?_ she wondered). She hadn't thought to ask Gwineval about Merit yet.

Her thoughts returned then to the sleeping wizard, Falignus. If he had been aware of her presence in the weightless chamber, then why hadn't he attacked her or alerted the other wizards?

"Do you think Falignus was too deeply asleep to be aware of me?" she asked.

"He doesn't often rest in that chamber. I don't think it was mere chance that he was waiting there."

She now knew that Falignus was the leader of the Crimson Order of wizards. What little that she had gathered from Gwineval about this group suggested that they were even more evil than normal wizards (if that were possible).

Hemlock was guiltily aware that she felt a certain inexplicable attraction to Falignus. His features were appealing to her and the aura of mystery surrounding the circumstances of their meeting only heightened her curiosity about his motives. She felt guilty because she knew that this attraction could interfere with her mission. She tried to never allow her personal feelings to interfere with her profession. Prior to entering the Tower, she had been successful at maintaining that separation. Now she wasn't so sure.

As they floated gently upward, Hemlock could see another exit door approaching through the distorting bubbles that constantly played within the stream of Oberon fluid.

"We exit here," Gwineval said and pointed at the oval shaped iron portal.

Hemlock felt her bubble being driven sideways toward the portal and in a moment she was inside the alcove that it formed as it extruded outwards from the sides of the large pipe through which they traveled.

The latching lever of the hatch entered her air bubble with a slurping pop sound. Hemlock looked back at Gwineval, whose bubble had eased in behind hers. She saw that the two air pockets had joined into one. He still looked distracted, but he motioned to her to open the hatch. She wanted to ask more questions, but his strained demeanor discouraged her; with resignation she attempted to open the hatch as gently as possible.

She was chagrined as the heavy iron door made a loud groan of protest as it opened. She was assessing the surroundings when Gwineval pushed her gently but firmly, and she was thrust into the room like a wide eyed cat being thrown toward water.

Hemlock's teeth ground as her lips retreated into a hissing inhale and she couched low and frantically searched for cover.

They were at the end of a dim and dusty stonework hallway with a series of dark arches on either side of the fifty foot length of the hall. Many of the arches were enclosed by a shimmering magical barrier.

"We're quite safe, there is no need for alarm," commented Gwineval quietly as he closed the heavy door with a resounding metallic thud.

Hemlock looked back at him angrily. "You could have told me that before you pushed me in!" she growled in response. She felt an urge to react violently and this surprised her a bit. She realized that she still didn't trust Gwineval very much and liked him less.

"The spell to move us through the Oberon tube was quite demanding. I was beginning to tire so there was no time for pleasantries," responded Gwineval with little sympathy.

"Where are we?" queried Hemlock, regaining her focus and standing fully upright.

"This is a dark place. We call it the Hospice. Although we often speak of rehabilitation for those that are sent here, in reality there have never been any recoveries once wizards come to this place. Wizards are sent here to die," explained Gwineval solemnly as he began to walk toward a door on the far end of the hall.

"Why are they sent here?" asked Hemlock as she followed the Wizard.

"A certain number of wizards overextend their powers and go... insane."

Hemlock could see huddled figures in the dark alcoves behind the shimmering magical barriers, as they passed them.

The place stank of excrement.

She detected a brutally strong magical force of containment.

"In some cases, the insanity is the result of a spell gone awry. In other cases, it appears to be due to a latent defect of the mind that may engulf a Wizard spontaneously or be triggered by a trauma during a spell. In either case, dementia usually sets in quite dramatically and the Wizard must be sent here to prevent them from using their magic errantly and harming themselves or others," continued Gwineval as they neared the door.

"The conditions here are appalling!" commented Hemlock, noticing a hideously deformed figure in one of the cells crawling towards them, its simple cloak soiled by its own filth.

"Yes, it is true," replied Gwineval, "but the anti-magic spells are very difficult and time consuming. We can't afford to break the wards very often–we don't have the resources. It is an unfortunate situation," responded Gwineval in a detached manner which Hemlock found reprehensible.

They reached the door. Hemlock, who could not overcome her curiosity, turned to a nearby cell and saw a middle-aged man near the mouth of his cell, crying and gesturing frantically. She could not hear his cries through the magical barrier. With a shudder she turned away.

"This place is truly wretched," she whispered to herself, but she suspected that Gwineval overheard her. He said nothing in reply as he reached out to the door handle.

He paused and then turned to her. "This will be the most dangerous leg of our journey. We need to reach the Emerald Stair that will lead us to the seventh floor. The seventh floor is rumored to be the home of many long dead Wizard spirits who slumber in what (we hope) is a deep sleep. I don't know what to expect up there. It is imperative that you stay behind me, try to move normally, and do not say anything, no matter what happens. We don't have time for a lot of questions. If trouble breaks out, run for the Emerald Stair! But do not climb it!" Before Hemlock could respond, he opened the old wooden doorway, which kicked up a small cloud of dust. They emerged into another dimly lit hallway.

##  Chapter Seven

It was immediately evident to Hemlock that they were high in the Tower, for she recognized the tapered pinnacle of the structure as she glanced upwards at the ceiling of what had to be the seventh floor. The Tower walls became mostly glass on the floor above. Below the glass, along the highest point of the stone part of the structure, she could see small vertical windows carved artfully into the stone, which descended from the seventh floor down to the sixth floor, and provided a view to the outside from the edges of the wide foyer.

The curving, long wall of the foyer rose to form a balcony where it met the edge of the seventh floor. This balcony loomed above where they now stood, with a chain stretched along a series of ornate iron posts, representing the only restraint on the balcony that prevented onlookers from a nasty fall of over fifty feet.

Her eye caught motion to her left on the balcony above. A figure was coming out of the shadows from an arched portal that fed onto the edge of the balcony from an enclosed room.

"The Captain of the Crimson Guard!" hissed Gwineval. "Make yourself..." he ordered as he turned toward Hemlock, but she was no longer there.

From a position under cover of shadow, Hemlock watched Gwineval as he looked around for her frantically; he soon noticed her: lodged carefully against the wall of the balcony, concealed in the shadow of a support column.

Glancing upwards, Gwineval composed himself, turned to his right, and began to walk methodically forward.

Hemlock heard the footsteps above accelerate and then pass her hiding spot as Gwineval continued walking down the length of the foyer. She darted to the next support column as the guard above hailed Gwineval.

"Is that you, Gwineval?" called the voice with a tone of surprise mixed with an undercurrent of authority.

"Ah, yes. Well met, well met," responded Gwineval dismissively.

"Are you seeking access to the Atrium?" insisted the Captain.

Gwineval continued to walk briskly and Hemlock was forced to dart forward again silently in order to keep sight of him against the curvature of the wall. He was ignoring the Captain, who continued to accost him.

"Gwineval, you are not permitted to access the Atrium. If you don't stop, I'll be forced to notify Falignus," threatened the Captain, leaning over the balcony directly above Hemlock, the sleeves of his red robe hanging over her as she looked up.

Gwineval turned and responded to the Captain. "You'll do no such thing!" he bellowed.

"You know that you are not permitted access to the seventh floor, Gwineval," replied the Captain stubbornly. Both he and Gwineval had stopped moving.

"Yes, but the pending Solstice requires me to..." Gwineval paused almost imperceptibly, and Hemlock immediately perceived that he was lying. "...reinforce certain spells in the Atrium. I've cleared it with Falignus, you fool! Now be gone!" continued Gwineval.

Gwineval began to walk again and Hemlock watched the hands of the Captain above her. They clenched the chain restraint for several moments, turning red with tension, and then withdrew from view. She heard the Captain's footsteps withdrawing back toward the direction from which he came.

Hemlock dashed off toward Gwineval, who stood anxiously in front of an ornate double stairway which rose upward to the seventh floor balcony and was constructed with a dazzling, gemlike material which appeared to be translucent emerald. It was lit by a dance of inner lights which cast Gwineval in an eerie light.

Despite its beauty, the stairway filled Hemlock with dread, for it reeked of perverse magic. She could feel the pattern of death emanating from the light within it. There were spells of binding as well; spells that felt like they might be eternal in nature. The magic evoked feelings of awe and a certain moribund majesty, which she could only compare to how she had felt when she had first seen a mountain range as a small girl.

She became fully aware then of the sheer magnitude of the magical power which coursed through the stair. It was many, many times stronger than the already considerable magical dweomers which she had encountered during her intrusion into the Tower.

"Is there another way up?" she whispered through clenched teeth, as she struggled against an instinctive repulsion from the death aura of the stair. She felt like the death aura was leeching into her mind and affecting her senses.

"None we can take now," Gwineval responded, gesturing toward himself in a waving motion which encouraged Hemlock to proceed.

Hemlock moved toward him and then felt physically ill.

"It's so vile! Another way!" she said in a muffed cry.

"Get a hold of yourself! It is part of the magic that preserves those that dwell in Shadow that is affecting you. I did not have time to ward you against it. It will not permanently harm you. You must resist it and climb the stair–it's the only way!" hissed Gwineval more urgently.

Something within Hemlock heard his plea and she felt herself moving toward the stairway almost unconsciously. She was dimly aware of falling into Gwineval's arms. Her consciousness then turned inward as she resisted the corruption of the baleful green glow of the stairway and climbed it step by torturous step.

She was only barely conscious as she reached the top of the stair. She felt Gwineval's abrasive hands under her armpits supporting her, and then laying her down at the threshold of an open space where sounds echoed and were magnified. She heard the patter of a driving rain on glass and thunder rolling in the distance.

"Gwineval, what is going on!?" Hemlock was dimly aware of a strange voice calling suddenly from their left.

It was that of the Guard Captain.

She felt an abstract fear but was too incapacitated to react at all. All that she could do was listen impotently to the voice which she feared might be her and Gwineval's undoing.

"You are violating the sanctity of the Seventh Circle without permission! There was no order from Lord Falignus to admit you!" cried the Captain.

Hemlock considered, that Gwineval was at a crossroads. She had trusted him reluctantly and within limits. He was now totally in control and she wondered, with a strange detached serenity, whether he would betray her and Safreon or (and she realized how insane and improbable the alternative sounded) whether he would instead betray the Wizard Guild.

She had her answer immediately as she managed to open her eyes in time to see twin bolts of white fire shine from Gwineval's outstretched arms and bathe the Guard Captain in a dazzling light. The magic threw the Captain's body back against an iron pillar and left him unconscious.

Hemlock lay there some minutes, slowly regaining her strength. She heard Gwineval pacing nervously and cursing from time to time.

_Evidently his decision is causing him some anxiety_ , Hemlock thought.

As she regained her full faculties, she became aware of a dull electrical sound which pulsed to an irregular rhythm, as if a vessel of energy was building up and then discharging. When she finally felt that she could stand, she lifted herself onto all fours and Gwineval helped her up. Then she saw it: the object of her quest.

It was a tall machine with a large crystal base that was as wide as four men standing with arms outstretched. The crystal stretched upward in two halves and was anchored internally by two gently curving metal beams, which rose almost organically upward from the base of the crystal and stretched all the way to the high ceiling of the glass Atrium. The machine culminated in a long metal rod at the very top, which extended through the ceiling where a round trap door had been fashioned in the glass and left open to the elements. Rain poured in through the opening and over the machine, turning to steam each time the machine pulsed to life with an electrical burst.

Now that she stood before what she saw as a mechanized manifestation of the Wizard's evil magic, Hemlock felt nothing. She was devoid of emotion.

After all of the effort that she had expended and all of the incalculable risks that she had taken, she had expected to feel some sense of triumph at this moment.

Instead she felt hollow, even as she perceived the magical aura of the device which was emitting magical power; and she experienced the effects of that power in stark contrast to the negative magic of the Emerald stair: this aura re–energized her, much to her surprise.

The mere thought of the stair made her shudder anew.

Gwineval moved and stood in front of her, casting a stern, contemplative gaze toward her. Behind him, Hemlock noticed an odd contraption. It looked like a large brass bird cage. It was big enough to hold several men, and a large bell, which was covered with runes, hung from the top of the inside of the cage.

Hemlock started to ask Gwineval what the two strange contraptions were for when a disturbance on the exterior of the atrium diverted both of their attention.

The outside of the Atrium, which was entirely constructed in glass, with the exception of slim iron supports running through the glass at intervals, featured another balcony, the edge of which was bordered by a stone balustrade. A large winged form could be seen maneuvering to land on the outside balcony. Its hulking mass was evident through the distortion caused by the streaming water of the rain shower, which cascaded down over the glass walls.

"What is that?" Hemlock asked guardedly, with a hint of hope in her voice.

"I believe that is your method of escape," responded Gwineval, somewhat relieved.

"Gwineval! Once again I've underestimated you!" cried a deep and youthful voice from across the Atrium, startling Hemlock.

She turned to see a lone figure which stood against the wall across the Atrium from them, bathed in shadow as Hemlock and Gwineval spun toward his voice. The figure stepped forward into view: it was a lean and well-muscled figure wearing a loose fitting red robe. The figure was familiar to both Hemlock and Gwineval. The wizard known as Falignus, the leader of the merciless Crimson Order faction of the Wizard Guild, had found them.

No words were spoken as a moment of surprise and recognition quickly passed between all three. A doorway opened in the glass wall; the sounds of the storm outside were magnified, as was the smell of humidity over which a new, strong and bestial odor was detectable. A slightly portly human figure entered and pulled back his water laden hood, his features darkening as he noted the presence of Falignus.

Hemlock's eyes widened as she recognized her mentor, Safreon. Even though he was expected, seeing him in this setting sent a wave of comfort and well-being through her–and she immediately cursed it, for she knew that she was by no means out of danger.

"Well, isn't this quite the party? Gwineval, if I thought there could be some reasonable explanation for all of this I'd gladly pay a fortune to hear it. But I can see that your actions are clearly treasonous to the Wizard Guild," shouted Falignus from across the room.

Gwineval's tail–now just a small stub after his fight with Hemlock–could be seen moving spasmodically back and forth under his robe as he answered.

"You jump to conclusions, Falignus! Do not interfere here. I will share the explanation of this peculiar chain of events with you in full if you will defer to my better judgment and leave this hall immediately."

Safreon, who had entered the Atrium at some distance from Gwineval and Hemlock, strode cautiously closer to them. Everyone else was still as the dialogue continued.

"Gwineval, I feared that someone else in the Tower had detected the girl–little did I expect that it would be you," said Falignus mockingly.

"Nor did I ever expect to find you embarked on such an irresponsible course of action as this. I certainly won't leave you to play out whatever madness you have planned. I have called the soldiers and they will be here in moments. No doubt they will not take kindly to your treatment of their Captain or the presence of a traitor and his minions," continued Falignus gesturing first toward the unconscious Captain and then toward the trio.

Safreon had moved to Hemlock's side and grasped her hand in a firm grip. He was pulling her slightly and they both began to move toward the door.

Gwineval began to hiss toward the pair, but Falignus noticed Safreon and Hemlock moving and shouted above Gwineval: "Do not move any further!"

A well-muscled and tattooed Wizard rushed up the Emerald stair. Behind him were four more men who looked similar to the first: wearing loose red robes which revealed similar exotic tattoos coursing over their well-honed frames. While the Captain had wielded a jeweled mace, each of the five robed soldiers held savage looking morning stars with long black handles ending in heavy chains, each of which suspended a cruelly spiked iron ball. All five of the wizard-soldiers looked back and forth between Falignus and Gwineval. They looked confused.

Gwineval spoke first. "Guards, hold your ground. You do not understand what is transpiring here."

"Do not be deceived," replied Falignus commandingly, "Gwineval is harboring fugitives within the Tower. You can see that he is in the process of aiding their escape!"

Hemlock glanced at Safreon. His look acknowledged that he shared her expectation that this exchange was not going to end peacefully. Their many months on the street had developed a rapport between them that allowed them to communicate non-verbally in tense situations.

Hemlock felt confident that she and Safreon, together with Gwineval, could handle the wizards.

"Lord Falignus, should we wait for the other council members to determine what needs to be done?" asked one of the wizards tentatively.

"Yes, let's wait for the other wizards," responded Falignus gloatingly as he slowly began to walk toward Gwineval, Safreon and Hemlock. "Be mindful of this lot though, fellow wizards. Do not let them escape."

"This is overly dramatic, Falignus. Stop where you are before you do something foolish!" chided Gwineval in an angry hiss.

Falignus addressed the guards. "They will inevitably move to make their escape. You five must be ready to join me when that happens. You know Gwineval's skills in battle and the girl may be his equal. Both are fast and deadly fighters. I have not faced the old man, but I would not underestimate him, considering his current company."

Hemlock and Safreon moved to Gwineval's flanks forming a loose wedge with him as the five guard wizards advanced into the chamber toward them, following the advance of Falignus.

"Do not move! Any of you!" commanded the guard Wizard as he moved forward with his companions.

Suddenly Gwineval's voice boomed in Hemlock's mind: "WHEN I ACT, MAKE YOUR MOVE!"

In an instant, Hemlock met Safreon's gaze and she could see that he had also heard Gwineval.

Suddenly there was a great flash and sparkling tendrils of energy erupted from Gwineval's clawed hands, quickly spanning the length of the room and forming a shimmering barrier between them and Falignus. Gwineval stood in place and it looked to Hemlock like he had to concentrate on this spell in order to keep it in effect.

Where the barrier crossed the huge machine in the center of the room, there was a hissing and popping of magical energy but the machine did not appear to be damaged.

Hemlock sprinted backwards toward the door through which Safreon had entered the Atrium. She could hear Safreon moving as well. They both heard shouts coming from behind them and there were red flashes and the almost deafening roar of magical thunder. Time seemed to slow down under the oppressive weight of the magical energy now in the air.

Hemlock felt like she was running in molasses or heavy sand. Glancing back at Safreon, his face bore an expression of surprise as well.

When she reached the glass door, she grasped the handle and tried to fling it open.

But it did not open. The forward push that she gave the doorway seemed to make the entire glass wall stretch strangely outward, however, like the surface had gained some mysterious elasticity. Safreon, apparently not anticipating this failure, could not stop from bumping into Hemlock from behind. This thrust her against the door, further intensifying the strange stretching effect before it snapped backwards, and they both were thrust back toward the center of the Atrium and the strange melee that was unfolding there.

Hemlock was not sure that she could even fight under these conditions, yet it was now clear that she would have to, for the robed guard wizards were now forcing their way through shimmering seams that had been rent in the barrier that Gwineval had created. As she moved back toward Gwineval, she could see that the energy emanating from his hands was being met by similar discharges from Falignus on the other side of the barrier. But Falignus' energy was focused on the areas through which the robed wizards now invaded. One guard-wizard had not committed himself to the battle, looking to Hemlock like he was not sure about which side to aid.

Hemlock was reassured that her speed still seemed superior in relation to the wizard that pushed through the barrier first. He was running toward Gwineval and raising his morning star in preparation for a great strike. As he noticed Hemlock on an intercepting course, however, he refocused the strike toward her. Hemlock judged that she had little margin of error against him. If her speed failed her, then the first blow from that weapon would be a death blow.

She saw Safreon moving toward the breach in the barrier as another wizard burst through. Then her attention returned to her immediate foe–and the morning star that was descending toward her head.

Hemlock's long knife was in her hand. She knew that the wizard's heavy strike had forced him to commit himself. She hesitated on the commission of her own counter-strike, preferring to make sure that her opponent didn't surprise her. Suddenly, the tattoos along the wizard's body seemed to pulsate and she realized with only a moment to spare that the morning star was hurtling toward her at a magically enhanced speed. Her only option was to vault over the wizard; her momentum was such that to remain on the ground would result in her certain death. With a grunt, she thrust against the ground with all of her might and launched herself upwards.

As she sailed over the wizard, she kicked out her feet to strike his head, but the wizard was agile and he ducked under her kick, leaning back and toward the floor.

Still in mid–air, Hemlock then used her trailing arm to throw her knife, catching the wizard in the throat as she flew over him. She landed, crouched, some feet distant and close to the energy barrier. The energy from the barrier made her hair stand up from her scalp.

Hemlock drew her second knife and turned to take in the situation. Safreon was engaged with two of the wizards and a third was pushing through the barrier. One wizard was falling to the floor after a grapple with Safreon which had left the wizard's shoulder badly dislocated and hanging at an odd angle. He shouted out in pain as he writhed to the floor. The other was in the process of swinging his morning star toward Safreon's large frame. Hemlock feared that he might not be able to dodge the blow, but knew that she needed to intercept the next wizard.

As she sprinted toward the fourth wizard pushing through the barrier, her heart skipped a beat as the strike against Safreon missed his head by less than a finger's width. She could see that Safreon was now in a position to grapple with the wizard, as the savage morning star swing had compromised the wizard's position, leaving him vulnerable to a counter-attack.

Hemlock approached the remaining wizard that was on her side of the barrier, and vaulted into a somersault as the Wizard's tattoos glowed. He aimed a heavy blow toward her airborne form. Suddenly she straightened and thrust forward heavily with her arms. Her horizontal pose allowed the morning star swing to pass harmlessly below her and then her leg kicked down, over the startled Wizard's hastily raised arm, and straight into the side of his head. The wizard fell to the floor, unconscious.

As she landed on the floor, she heard a sickening snap of cracking bone behind her. Turning, she saw the other wizard meet his end in a death embrace with Safreon.

The wizard with the dislocated arm had managed to leap back through the barrier to the other side, as the breach in the barrier closed. Hemlock saw that Falignus, on the other side of the barrier, was lowering his arms.

As Falignus let the crimson rays that had sprung from his hands fall dark, time seemed to lose its odd slowness and Hemlock felt a measure of normalcy return.

The magical strain finally took its toll on the Atrium, however. Many of the glass panels shattered in that instant–both above Hemlock in the ceiling and in the high walls around the room. Safreon and Hemlock had to avoid falling shards of glass, but fortunately for Gwineval, none impacted in his vicinity, as he was still immobile while concentrating on his spell.

Whatever force had provided a comfortable, even light in the Atrium had also failed, and the room was bathed in the darkness of the night.

Something clicked within Hemlock's awareness, identifying with the shattering of the glass, and she knew that it was time for the culmination of her mission.

The storm that had been raging outside was now streaming into the Atrium. An infernal wind blew and a driving rain soon drenched Hemlock, as a bolt of lightning cracked and cast the remaining occupants of the Atrium in a fell light.

Grasping a morning star from one of the fallen guard-wizards, she ran toward the tall Machine in the center of the Atrium, the destruction of which represented the completion of her quest. The look in her eyes was cold–colder even than the rain which now drove against her skin, relentlessly. Thunder again rumbled from the heavens as she approached the humming machine, the reassuring weight of the morning star borne in both hands giving her confidence that she would succeed in her destructive aim.

She became conscious of a fantastic beast of some sort on the outer balcony to her left side, now visible through some shattered panes. The beast cried and the cry was birdlike–and it sounded like a pained cry.

"The Griffin is wounded. Wait! Hemlock, what are you doing?" she heard Safreon say from some distance behind her. Apparently he had moved off toward the creature before noticing what Hemlock intended to do.

She saw Gwineval's magical barrier waver as she ran toward the tall machine, fearless in the face of an emanation of magical energy which unexpectedly erupted from the base of the machine at that instant, and burst upwards along the inner metal beam of the glass shafts to the metallic tip of the machine, which protruded through the hole in the now damaged roof. Suddenly the night air crackled with an unidentified power.

"Hemlock, NO!" she heard Gwineval cry as the magical barrier that he had cast shimmered and then failed entirely.

The last thing that she felt, before she spun twice and launched the morning star with all her might, was pity. She pitied Gwineval and his misguided allegiance to the wizards, which was apparently showing through. He evidently feared for the safety of the machine despite his recent betrayal of the wizards.

But it was too late. She threw the morning star as hard as she could. She aimed it at the union of the clear base of the machine where the strange ironwork tendrils that stretched upwards diverged from one another. Her aim was true and the glass base of the machine shattered under the impact.

Hemlock's vision was filled with a blinding whiteness as a massive explosion shook the entire Wizard Tower.

Hemlock was thrown backwards some forty feet, to the very edge of the Atrium. Then the initial flash of the magical explosion receded and large fragments of the machine were falling with a crash. A thunderous boom off to one side of the Atrium sounded as the edges of the metal rods smashed through the remnants of the glass walls, jutting out over the edge of the Tower.

Hemlock stood up and saw that Gwineval and Safreon were standing uninjured– both staring at her.

"Hemlock, you headstrong young fool!" shouted Gwineval as small debris continued to fall around him.

"Never mind that," shouted Safreon "we need to find a way out of here and the Griffin has flown off, wounded!"

Hemlock saw that the remaining guard-wizard was gathering several more squads of guards on the far side of the Atrium, as Safreon and Gwineval discussed their next move. She also noticed that Falignus was getting to his feet some distance from the guard-wizards.

"Run for the cage!" shouted Gwineval as he pointed toward the large cage that Hemlock had seen earlier.

Not waiting for an explanation, Safreon and Hemlock followed Gwineval in a sprint toward the polished brass object.

"Stop them!" shouted Falignus. The muscular guard-wizards numbered around twenty now, and they charged toward the cage as well.

Hemlock paused only a moment before she grasped the side of the large cage and entered it to stand beside Safreon, who had already entered through the open, barred door of the contraption.

Gwineval entered, quickly closed the door, and reached up, muttering some incantations as he rang the ornate bell which hung from the top of the cage.

Falignus shouted (although Hemlock thought that it sounded strangely faint) and bolts of lightning sprang from his hands towards them; but as the lightning struck the cage, it passed through it and did not harm them or the brass structure that enclosed them.

"We're teleporting!" noted Safreon excitedly.

Hemlock had always imagined that teleportation would be a little more immediate than what proceeded next. The robed guard-wizards were getting alarmingly close.

Then the cage shuddered heavily and the three occupants staggered to stay upright. Before Hemlock was able to look out from the cage again, the Atrium was gone and there was a brief feeling of nothingness: a single moment where Hemlock felt like she ceased to exist as an independent entity. She felt like part of the entire world in some strange sense. She had a vision of a being in a great void surrounded by stars. Quickly, that moment passed. The cage now had new surroundings, and as she looked down, she noted an additional occupant sprawled on the floor of the cage looking up at her. Many gears and small pistons moved rapidly in concert over its mechanical body. It was the mechanical gnome that called itself Merit.

"Miss Megan, I couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye," commented Merit–his mechanics sounding hurried like the voice of a human being would when out of breath.

Gwineval and Safreon looked down at Merit and then up toward Hemlock, both wearing curious expressions on their faces.

# BOOK TWO

## Chapter Eight

Hemlock ignored the unexpected appearance of Merit for a moment and took in her new surroundings. She looked through the regularly spaced vertical bars of the brass cage and saw that it now rested within a misty valley nestled between two large hills, which rose to her right and left. It was now dawn and the air was cool and humid. The hills were forested sparsely at their bottom and more thickly toward their peaks. Both nearby peaks were relatively flat and sizable. Shadows were long in the morning sunlight.

There was a small brook nearby and the ground around the cage was thick with low vegetation and the occasional tree. The ground was damp as if it had rained recently.

Gwineval was the first to speak; "We must exit the cage." Hemlock unlatched the door to the cage and stepped out. She felt a sort of unearthly sensation as she walked and wasn't sure how to account for it, but it scarcely surprised her given the magnitude of recent events.

"Where are we?" Hemlock asked in an exasperated tone.

"We are in the Witch Crags," replied Gwineval sternly, with his hand over his brow as he surveyed the terrain around them.

"Gwineval, what was the function of the machine that Hemlock destroyed?" asked Safreon, while glancing inquisitively toward Merit.

"It was a mana generator," replied Gwineval as he strode out of the cage and continued to inspect their surroundings.

"Generator? More like a mana siphon!" argued Hemlock.

"Actually, no, it was a mana generator, and it was maintaining mana levels in the City," responded Gwineval somewhat distractedly, as he studied one of the adjacent hills with some intensity.

"What are you talking about?" cried Hemlock, as she grabbed Gwineval and spun him toward her.

"That was what I was trying to yell to you once I saw your intentions, but you didn't listen," stated Gwineval with a serpentine glare.

"Gwineval," interjected Safreon while gently but firmly stepping between them and separating them, "what exactly will the effect of the machine's destruction be?"

"A dramatic reduction in mana throughout the city for several weeks, at minimum. The wizards may try to distribute Oberon by some other means in order to help maintain local magic until the machine is replaced, but it will be difficult to say the least," Gwineval responded, while throwing some reeds into the wind to gauge its direction.

"No! That will harm my sister and her magical treatments!" Hemlock wailed as she struggled against Safreon's grasp.

"Hemlock," Safreon spoke softly now and this tone of his voice always had a calming effect on her. "You've done some impulsive things, things that are going to have grave repercussions. You have to remain calm while we discuss what we should do to try and set things right."

Hemlock met Safreon's gaze.

She started to speak, but Safreon spoke over her in that same soft but commanding tone. "You have to remain calm. We'll figure a way out of this. Take a few moments to calm down. Let Gwineval and I speak for a time."

"Fine," Hemlock responded, feeling comforted and offended in equal parts. She strode over to Merit who seemed to be busying himself by cleaning dirt off some rocks.

Hemlock wondered whether her actions could really have had the effect that Safreon and Gwineval were claiming that they had. She knew that Safreon wouldn't lie to her. That meant that Gwineval must be telling the truth, no matter how shocking this truth was to her. The wizards had been supplying mana to the Warrens, not leeching it.

But why?

Hemlock glanced over at Gwineval and Safreon, not hearing their speech but evaluating their body language. They were both guarded, but they clearly had a rapport with one another. She listened then, and heard that they were discussing something about the blue men from Tanna Varra. She thought that she remembered some connection between them and the Witch Crags, but she couldn't recall the details.

Another wave of shock and introspection washed over her. _My actions tonight could cause my sister to suffer even more than before!_ she raged to herself. Hemlock sobbed then, softly, and lowered her face into her hands.

After a moment, she was back in control and an inner voice berated her fiercely for the breakdown. _Avoid weakness!_ it said, and she listened. She knew that the Warrens had taught her well and had molded her into her present street–hardened persona. She also knew that she couldn't afford to forget those hard lessons now.

She reasoned that if she had miscalculated, then she had to make it right. She had entered the Wizard Tower and had survived. She was very confident in her abilities and she knew that she had the power to set things right. And she continued to believe that the wizards were evil. She just had to figure out why they had been reinforcing mana in the Warrens. There had to be a reason, and no doubt it was part of some sinister plan of theirs.

Casting another glance at Merit, and making an attempt to subtly wipe any stray tears from her face, she strode back to Gwineval and Safreon.

Safreon turned to her, and gave her an appraising glance. "Good, I can see that you have mastered your emotions," he offered kindly.

"I have to, the Warrens need me. They need us to set things right," she replied with an edge in her voice at which Safreon seemed to register some concern.

Safreon was about to speak, but Hemlock interrupted him with an interjection: "Wait, if the wizards have been adding to the mana in the Warrens, then why has it still been decreasing?"

Gwineval was the first to respond: "Because the wizards have outlawed the private use of most magic that would generate mana. The older generations of people in the Warrens were basically self-sufficient when it came to mana. But the wizards have disallowed this type of magic now and have forced people to consume potions instead. But people often can't afford these potions. And some of the potions also require mana. The wizards know this and therefore they attempt to create enough mana in each City district to fuel the potions that are sold. But any unlawful magic siphons from this amount and can create shortages, such as we often see now in the Warrens."

Hemlock considered Gwineval's words.

Safreon commented, "It seems to me that the wizards have created this problem by not allowing people to be self-sufficient."

"One could make that argument," responded Gwineval noncommittally, his tone seeming to express that he thought that one could argue against that point as well.

"The wizards want to control everything!" Hemlock shouted to no one in particular, turning away from Gwineval.

Safreon called her name after a few moments and then began to speak. "I have been discussing our best course of action with Gwineval. He believes that we should seek out the wild men of Tanna Varra, who are indigenous to the Witch Crags. They are no friends to the Wizard Guild and Gwineval believes that they may be persuaded to give us shelter from them for a time. I believe that once under such protection that we can collect enough raw Oberon to enable Gwineval and I to activate the brass cage and teleport us all back to the Warrens."

"You mean the blue men called 'Bird men'?" asked Hemlock in a monotone.

Casting an eye toward Safreon and meeting with approval, Gwineval replied. "Yes, the same. They are not all like the riff–raff that have migrated to the Warrens recently. Rather, they are quite civilized in their own way, though they are still intrinsically a product of their harsh environment."

"Why would they help us?" Hemlock asked.

Gwineval continued: "As Safreon pointed out, the Tanna Varrans are not allies of the wizards. Rather, they keep their own counsel. Long ago, the Witches came to these Crags and together with their undead minions, they warred with the people of Tanna Varra. Over time, the Tanna Varrans developed a resistance to the undead–with many of them becoming virtually immune to the fear and dread that the undead prey upon. The Witches were dismayed by this development. They had inflicted great suffering on the Tanna Varrans, yet the Tanna Varrans fought on against them, with increasing determination."

Gwineval appeared to take stock of Hemlock then, and seeing that she was attentive, he continued. "At some point the Witches must have realized that they might never defeat the Tanna Varrans or worse, they may have foreseen their own doom at their hands. So they negotiated a truce. Day would belong to the Tanna Varrans, and in the sunlight they could roam the valleys between the Crags to hunt and gather. But night was to be the province of the Witches and of the Undead. And any mortal wandering in the valleys after dark would do so at their own peril."

"The Tanna Varrans accepted this truce–some among them say to their detriment. Rather than rooting out the evil that confronted them, they chose to coexist with it. They chose to end the long years of struggle and warfare and take a measure of happiness within the confines of the agreement. The Tanna Varrans took to living in great warded towers in the valleys where the undead spirits could not trouble them. High above, on the peaks of the crags, the Witches built their ziggurat cities. No Tanna Varran with any sense willingly ventures to the top of the Crags, day or night. The agreement continues to this day."

"The Witches have, in more recent years, come into contact with the wizards, who now make forays into the Witch Crags to harvest Oberon. The Witches are a danger to everyone in these parts and we must be very wary of them. Fortune favors us with the dawn; without it we would have already been put to the test."

"So we are going to seek the Tanna Varrans and avoid the Witches and the wizards?" Hemlock asked.

"Yes," replied Safreon.

Suddenly a shrill mechanical whine emanated from some distance behind them and interrupted their conversation.

"What was that?" hissed Gwineval.

"Wait, where's Merit?" asked Hemlock looking behind them.

"He's gone," responded Gwineval. "We should fan out. Maybe he's gotten stuck in the brush."

"It didn't sound far, I'll go get him," said Hemlock with an undisguised tone of annoyance in her voice.

As Gwineval and Safreon continued their discussion of the origins of the Witches, Hemlock reluctantly turned and made her way down a slope that lay some yards behind where she had been standing, at some distance from the bass cage.

She walked for a few minutes. She didn't hear anymore sounds and decided to proceed with some caution. As Gwineval and Safreon's voices became more distant, she sighted Merit.

He was stuck in an upright position. Nothing impeded his progress yet his body quaked and shivered as if in the grip of spasms.

"Merit, what's wrong?" asked Hemlock, increasing her speed to a trot until she stood beside him.

She reached toward his shoulder to try and coax him back to responsiveness but was surprised when she found herself unable to move her arm. She was now immobile and her body struggled against some sinister and invisible bonds, much as Merit's did.

Her eye caught some motion from a small defile in a rocky formation some ten yards in the distance. An arachnid form flitted out of the shadows and moved quickly toward them. The black spider was unnaturally large, being about two feet in length. Hemlock could see that the spider looked partially insubstantial and its eyes shone with an alarming red glow. The dark legs of the creature moved in a steady blur as it approached.

The strange spider made straight for Hemlock and eyed her cruelly with its glowing eyes. Hemlock was still unable to move as the spider reached her and it began to crawl in a circular motion from her ankles up to her waist. As it did so, Hemlock felt the constraint of additional magic confinement, like an invisible web wrapping around her.

Merit managed to shudder, and the spider crawled down Hemlock's leg, and then over to Merit. It began to wind its way up his body.

Hemlock ceased to struggle against the force and began to attune her mind to the magic of the spider. She sensed a childlike, almost playful magic mixed with an unquenchable yearning to feed. But she also felt some overarching power and dominance that had a palpable, fear-driven grip on the simpler spirit.  
Hemlock thought that she knew what it was in that dominant power: witch magic.

This was the first time that Hemlock had felt their power. Their magic was partially preservative but corrupting, as if it entangled souls with a promise of a retention of a mortal existence, but instead delivered a cruel and corrupting mockery of that existence. Hemlock shuddered once again for the dweomer, though weak, spoke of a magic no less fell and evil than that of the Seventh Circle wizards and their Emerald Stair.

It was now clear to Hemlock that the Witches possessed magic power that could be just as dangerous as any Wizard.

Before Hemlock could weigh the impact of that realization, her attention returned to the urgency of her current situation. Merit appeared to have damaged himself in the process of trying to escape. His frantic struggling had led to a number of oil and steam leaks which seemed to have sapped his strength. He stood in silence now with the exception of the hissing steam that burst forth from a handful of burst copper pipes.

The spider had returned to Hemlock's feet and now continued another slow and purposeful ascent, this time projecting strands of magic between her and Merit as it rose. Slowly, methodically, Hemlock felt the grip of the magic tighten again. She continued to focus her mind on the nature of the power of the magic. She was surprised to detect a verbal component to the spell that bound the childlike spirit and the arachnid. It was a series of words sung to a tune. Hemlock felt sure, in that instant, that if she could match the tone of a portion of that song, but in a certain harmonic offset, that she would be able to free herself.

With a tremendous focus of will, Hemlock was able to muster the energy to hum three notes in succession. She sensed, rather than heard, a great cacophony of sounds then, which she could only compare to the sound of a lattice of glass breaking into shards.

She was able to move again and the Spider fell to the ground on its back, its legs curling in death. Hemlock disassociated her senses from the magic at once, not caring to be attuned to the expiration of the strange creature. The spider shrunk markedly and writhed on the ground. Then it simply disintegrated with a sound like the rustling of leaves. Hemlock concluded that it apparently had no mortal form without the formative witch magic to sustain it. She noted the voices of Gwineval and Safreon calling for her in the distance. The entire encounter had taken only a few moments, but evidently they were being cautious and searching for her.

She looked down at Merit and sighed. He was still leaking oil, but at least the steam had subsided and the leaks looked to be slowing. Still, she had no knowledge of the physiology of the mechanical gnome or any idea of the extent to which these injuries might have harmed the automaton. Merit was still immobile and unresponsive.

Hemlock called to Gwineval and Safreon as they crested a grassy hill about fifty yards away. She motioned to them and they approached in response in a brisk jog.

Gwineval, moving faster than Safreon, reached the scene first and took stock of the situation before speaking. Safreon arrived soon after and Hemlock quickly related the tale of the attack of the spider. She was vague about the details of her escape from the magic and Gwineval seemed to take note of this part of her tale. He did not press the matter, however.

"How serious are his injuries?" Hemlock asked.

"I am unsure without some time to perform various small spells to diagnose the problem," responded Gwineval, his tongue moving to and fro as he seemed to still be in thought.

"The problem is that we do not have the luxury of time. We must take advantage of this day to try and locate some Tanna Varrans and seek shelter with them." stated Safreon.

"Agreed," responded Gwineval. "I will carry the automaton," he continued.

"Really?" asked Hemlock with a note of mild surprise. "I don't want to leave him, but won't that slow us down?" she asked Gwineval.

"He might have information that could harm us if he fell into the wrong hands, I think," stated Gwineval.

"Perhaps," responded Hemlock. "We can take turns carrying him, if you like. I am glad that we are able to do this for him."

"Let's go. We should head north. We need to climb that hill over there. Safreon and I agree. It's our best chance to locate a Tanna Varran town" said Gwineval, as he pointed to the North at a hilltop that lay some miles distant. It rose to a considerable, but not insurmountable height. Broken patches of trees were visible along its height and there appeared to be varying terrain; some gentle slopes were interspersed with ridge lines that looked difficult to navigate.

"Wait, don't the witches and evil spirits reside on the hilltops?" Hemlock asked, assaying their surroundings as she considered what threat that might pose.

"Yes, they often do," responded Safreon. "But in this case, we need to risk that in order to locate a Tanna Varran town. Hopefully we'll find one without having to climb all the way to the top of the hill. But if we don't locate the Tanna Varrans today, we will be under siege by worse spirits than what you just faced, come nightfall. Far worse," he cautioned.

"I concur then. Let's be off," Hemlock replied. She inspected Gwineval's physique. "Can you run long distances?" she asked.

"Yes, provided that we can find regular supplies of water, I will be able to maintain a greater speed than you or Safreon would be able to without magical enhancement," Gwineval replied.

Hemlock replied with a skeptical look, but she gestured for Gwineval to lead the way. Although Safreon had a large pot belly, she knew that he could run like a horse when pressed.

##  Chapter Nine

One evening Hemlock and Safreon sat at the top of a chapel tower looking down on the Warrens. Hemlock was young, having only recently taken to working with Safreon.

"What can you tell me of the City, Safreon?" Hemlock asked with the suddenness that often accompanies youthful inquiry.

Safreon regarded her warmly and began to speak.

"Our City, San Cyra, is old but not ancient. We know that it was built some ten generations ago by a great Wizard and a group of outcasts who arrived here from various places."

"From beyond the veil?" Hemlock asked with a tone of reverence.

"Yes, indeed. At that time, people must have begun to appreciate the properties of the City: how the lands surrounding it constantly change. Those who stayed here either did so to escape their previous circumstances and start a new life, or they wandered into this land in ignorance and became stranded here when the lands shifted," responded Safreon.

"It is easy to get stranded here, isn't it?" asked Hemlock.

"Yes, because tradition holds that our City is unique in its property of shifting through different lands. Although who can say for sure?" Safreon mused.

Hemlock looked at the streets below their vantage point, over toward an open square where several neighborhoods met. In that spot stood the largest marketplace in the Warrens. It consisted of acres of makeshift stalls where vendors peddled wares as commonplace as the foodstuffs grown on the farms which surrounded the City, and as exotic as a number of hairless felines that had arrived yesterday with some Merchants.

Hemlock and Safreon monitored the busy market, keeping an eye out for criminal activity, which was all too commonplace.

"To the East, in the mountains, the delvers mine Ore and gems from the earth. This area has remained near the City for our entire history, and these materials were used to build our City. The areas beyond the Mountains are ever changing, marked by a hazy veil that exists at the border between our lands and the outside, changing lands. It is said that if you look eastward through the veil from the mountain tops, that you cannot help but daydream. And when you take notice of the view, after a time, you'll see that it has changed; but you will never see the change occurring. It is a very strange phenomenon, and is under study by the Wizard Guild."

Safreon pointed north toward a great desert plain. "That Desert has bordered the Mountains for as long as we can recall as well. Yet people disappear in it if they venture too far. Stay away from it, Hemlock. There is no reason to go there."

"To the south lie the fertile plains where most of our food is grown and tended. It is said that these lands are safe out to a distance that can be seen from the top of the Wizard's Guild Tower, but no further. Beyond that the lands change with time," Safreon continued.

"To the west lie the Witch Crags. This region, alone, extends for many miles beyond the horizon, yet does not change. This is the source of the Oberon powder that fuels our magical powers in the City. Despite this region's stability, it is a dangerous area, populated by monstrous creatures. Fortunately these creatures seem to be confined to the Witch Crags and do not attack the City," Safreon explained with a cautionary tone.

"How are they confined?" Hemlock queried.

Safreon mused for a moment and then answered, "It seems that these creatures are bound to the Witch Crags. There are evil forces that hold sway there, and the creatures are bound to these forces."

"What of these forces?" Hemlock asked, turning to him.

"I'll say no more now. Suffice it to say that we are lucky that their power seems to be held in check. I suspect that the wizards are involved. But none seem to know for sure," Safreon answered, making it clear that he had no intention to elaborate.

Hemlock glanced at him and he did not meet her glance. She could see that his jaw was set as he looked down into the Marketplace.

"What happens to people that travel beyond the veil and cannot return to the City?" Hemlock asked.

"None can say for sure," Safreon responded, "but judging by the accounts of those who make the journey out of the City and return, these people enter lands where the surroundings do not change."

"Don't you want to find out? You know, what lies beyond?" asked Hemlock.

"I am curious, as are many here, I think. But would you give up your life here and everything you know to find out? Most are unwilling to do that–as am I."

"I'm not willing to do it now, but I feel like there may come a time when I am ready to make the journey–perhaps even to try and find my home again," Hemlock responded slowly, her eyes downcast as she appraised herself.

Safreon responded with a casual grunt that seemed to Hemlock to belie the gravity with which he seemed to regard that remark.

Hemlock decided to press her luck and continue her questions. It wasn't often that Safreon obliged her questioning this freely, and she intended to take full advantage of it.

"Tell me of the Elite part of the City. Why do they look down on us?" she asked.

Safreon again considered her question for a time before responding. "Throughout history, people have organized themselves into functional groups in order to allow them to act in concert. The Elites to the east of the Wizard Tower lead lives of contemplation and ease. They have time for drafting laws and holding courts of justice–things that are hard to do when you have to break your back in the fields every day. Yet they are important for our society."

He paused again and then he continued.

"The Elites manage the economy and implement the laws and policies set forth by the Senate. This structure is something of an amalgamation of the ways of our collective forbears from across the veil."

"The other two thirds of the City, our Warrens, are where the workers live. I believe that we have lost something along the way, or that part of the philosophy of our civic traditions has been lost. I believe that in an ideal society that the higher tiers recognize that they exist to serve the lower. Therefore, the Elites should really be the servants of the Workers and not the other way around. That concept of selfless service has been lost," Safreon concluded, shaking his head mildly in disapproval.

Hemlock looked up into the afternoon sky and gazed at the clouds, as her mind consumed the information that Safreon had told her. She wasn't sure what it meant to her or whether it really meant anything to her at all. She was consumed by a restless energy and scanned the street below.

A motion caught her eye. It stood out and was incongruent with the rest of the scene below. A woman who Hemlock assumed was an Elite Citizen, judging by the cleanliness and color in her garb, had been boldly walking alone in the market. Hemlock had seen the Citizen bolt upright suddenly and a black robed figure had fallen in smoothly behind her. Hemlock recognized the gait of the robed figure as the swift and smooth motion of a practiced thief at work.

Safreon let out a soft whistle of surprise. He had seen it too.

The woman began to move listlessly to the north with the robed figure staying close behind her.

Hemlock tensed as she prepared to descend to street level in pursuit. She felt Safreon's grasp on her arm, restraining her.

"Wait. I want to follow this one back to his hideout. This one is experienced; did you see how subtle the take was? An average person wouldn't have noticed that thief do anything unusual even if they'd been standing right alongside," Safreon intoned in a low voice filled with some measure of respect. He then motioned to an adjacent roof which she leapt to and he then gained more clumsily by rolling over a ledge, a few moments after her.

Together, they watched the woman and the man moving north toward a shanty section of the Warrens. The Thief moved slowly and blended well with the crowd, managing to stay close to her without looking suspicious. The Elite drew the normal attention that a Citizen usually did in the Warrens. Hemlock and Safreon had no trouble identifying her as she moved.

As Hemlock and Safreon shuffled along the rooftop in a relaxed pursuit, Safreon glanced at Hemlock.

"So why did you do it? Why did you agree to work with me?" he asked with a casual air.

Hemlock glanced back at him.

She considered her answer carefully.

"I want to change things," she said.

"What do you want to change?" He motioned her toward a wooden ladder that protruded above the roof line to the north. They had reached the end of the roof on this block and their targets continued to move north. They would have to continue the pursuit at ground level.

As they climbed down, Hemlock responded, "I want my sister to be able to afford the potions and spells she needs for her digestive condition. I want people to be able to live and work and not have to do so in fear of crime or the Wizard Guild," she concluded.

"A noble answer," he responded with an exhale as he landed solidly on the ground and began to move into the crowd with Hemlock. It was a harder pursuit now, but their practiced eyes were still able to track their quarry. "An idealistic answer, too," Safreon added.

"Meaning what?" Hemlock asked with a sidelong glance toward him as she slipped between two farmers.

"Meaning that you should remember these ideals once you gain the power that you seek," Safreon responded with undisguised gravity.

"Of course I will," she responded.

"Of course, indeed," he replied. "It's sometimes harder to do that than you would think."

Hemlock chose not to respond. He was right, in a sense. She did seek power and made no pretense with Safreon to pretend otherwise.

Ahead, the Thief darted into an alleyway; the Elite followed in short order.

Safreon and Hemlock knew the area well. The Badger Guild, a Thieves Guild of some notoriety, operated from here. They were mostly common cutpurses, but their numbers and their control of the marketplace district made them powerful. It was rare that one saw such a high level of ability as they had seen from this man that they now tracked. That he was apparently a Badger was a surprise to both of them.

"He must be high in their Guild," whispered Safreon as they approached the alley. "He'll be bold and careless at first, but beware, Hemlock. Once he recognizes us, he'll be very dangerous."

Safreon walked past the alley discreetly and cast a glance down its length. When he passed the alley he quickly stopped and hugged the wall. Hemlock did the same on her side of the alley.

They both knew that a Badger lookout would have spotted them by now. Now it was a matter of time and communication.

"How quickly will they get word to their people and respond in force?" Hemlock wondered.

Hemlock and Safreon had moved against Badger members before, but in those instances they had been more junior members, and the Guild had decided to look the other way rather than confront Safreon. Hemlock was concerned that this time might be different.

Without warning, Hemlock had a vision. She imagined a great Black Dragon rising from inside a Mountain, its wings beating strongly and lifting it up into the heavens. The vision passed as quickly as it had come.

Safreon hissed at her to get her attention.

Still surprised and bemused by the vision, Hemlock followed him into the alley at a relaxed pace.

The alley was well traveled with layer upon layer of footprints in the sandy ground. Old barrels, bottles, furniture fragments and other debris were strewn about, giving it an unkempt appearance. Makeshift sheds rose one and sometimes two stories toward the three story rooftops above.

Safreon stopped at a doorway and without warning, kicked it in.

Both of them flowed into the building, entering a medium-sized chamber with once fine wood wainscoting, which was now faded and chipped from wear and tear.

"What, now just you wait! This is Badger territory!" exclaimed a young and dirty cutpurse. He had evidently had been aware of their approach because his saber was drawn as they entered the room. He was dressed in a dirty tan cloak with gray pants and wore a dark hood over his head which shadowed his features. The youth took two steps forward and his footfalls resulted in dull creaks from the old wooden floor beneath the faded carpet.

Safreon made a gesture of caution and grunted more than spoke a query in response, "The woman?"

The youth just smiled and then charged with what he intended to be a bold attack.

Safreon parried the boy's downward thrust with his quickly drawn short sword and then stabbed the thief in the solar plexus as he embraced him and took the boy's charge.

Safreon threw the body down onto the carpet and muttered an epithet under his breath as Hemlock moved to a door across the room.

She listened and heard guttural and reveling voices within. She nodded to Safreon, who was watching for her reaction. He approached behind her and kicked the door in.

Hemlock was through the opening first and burst into another fine, but similarly decayed room. It was a three story entry hall with a marble floor and a broken sweeping staircase. Rope ladders hung from an upper banister to compensate for the stair. Burn marks were in evidence on the stairs, walls and floor. Evidently some conflict had occurred here at one time or another.

The female citizen whom Hemlock and Safreon had been seeking was bound at the wrists from a chain that hung from the ceiling three floors above. She was partially unclothed and still did not struggle.

Three men surrounded her, wearing opulent clothes. One stepped forward, looking familiar in a black robe, although the hood was down now and the robe worn open.

Evidently, this was the man that they had followed. The open robe revealed that the man wore an ostentatious outfit underneath: he had a gray jacket on with burgundy lapels which were accented with golden buttons. The jacket and the fine white shirt underneath were unbuttoned almost down to the man's midsection, showing his chiseled abdomen. The abdominal muscles were tinged with a light gray hair, however; he was clearly advanced well into middle age. His face had the look of nobility, but was marred by several scars. He wore a flamboyant, waxed mustache which was turned up at the tips. Thigh-high leather boots and a blue sash buckled with a gold accent completed his appearance, which displayed all of the braggadocio that Hemlock would have expected from a Thieves Guild member.

"Safreon, is that you?" the mustachioed man in the robe said with a swagger. The scent of rum was in the air.

Before Safreon could answer, the man noticed the body of the young cutpurse that Safreon had slain in the adjacent room. His features hardened.

The man glanced back at Safreon. "Why, you've killed my nephew. He was a fine boy – but headstrong. I can see his foolishness cost him dearly in the end. Still, it was not a just end for him, for he was defending Badger territory." He stressed the word Badger with spittle flying out of his mouth in anger.

Hemlock fanned out into the room. The other two men eyed her with a mixture of carnal lust and bloodlust.

Safreon spoke, "Greybreech, you just openly kidnapped a Citizen in the market. I had to intervene."

The man had regained a calm composure, but Safreon's statement enraged him again. "This ...wench is the daughter of a man that owes me and refuses to pay. Thus I am taking my payment in other ways." At this the other two men laughed harshly.

Safreon responded, "Release her into my custody. I'll return her to the man and I'll see that you get your money."

"Oh no, it's gone beyond that here already," the man responded. "You've killed Herbert and that must be answered for. Aye, answered in blood."

"Graybreech, I will lay gold down against his life. It is all I can do now. He charged me foolishly. Listen to reason," pleaded Safreon.

Hemlock noticed that a large chest lay open behind the two ruffians. Inside it she saw the glint of gold.

"I think she's seen our baubles," said one of the ruffians, noticing Hemlock's stare.

"Do you see that, Safreon?" replied Graybreech angrily, pointing at the chest. "Does it look like I need your gold against Herbert's life?" Graybreech drew his rapier and the ruffians followed suit.

"Don't be a fool, Graybreech!" hissed Safreon.

"What is this?" screeched Graybreech. "Does the mighty Safreon and his girl think they can best me and my two best men? Has your head finally gotten too big? You've been a thorn in my side for years now. I'll be glad to finally be rid of ya."

Graybreech began to circle Safreon and the two men fanned out and approached Hemlock.

"That's no ordinary girl," warned Safreon.

"We'll see," replied Graybreech, with a thrust of his rapier.

Safreon grunted and dodged the attack and then another, seeming somewhat overmatched against the quick Graybreech and his thrusting rapier.

Hemlock dodged two thrusts from her assailants and then parried another with her saber. These thieves, too, were accomplished fighters–among the best that Hemlock had ever faced.

As they fought her, she began to feel something growing within her. She struggled against it at first, trying to keep her mind focused on the nuances of the combat. She recalled her vision and she let her mind relax just for a moment, to see what this force or rhythm was that seemed to be overcoming her.

The two men were recovering from savage thrusts that had left them unbalanced. Hemlock instinctively began to draw her saber into her torso in a spinning motion, but her mind became alarmed at the exotic move, and she cut the motion short.

One of the men thrust in return and she ducked a split second too late and took a flesh wound on her back as a result. She cried out in pain.

"Hemlock!" cried Safreon as he fought on the defensive against Graybreech.

Hemlock recovered her composure as the men circled her again, making catcalls. Again she attempted to rest her mind and let her instincts take over.

The two men thrust again in unison and this time she didn't hesitate when the strange sensation overcame her and her reflexes took over. Her body tensed and jumped to the side while her arm swung in a wide arc and her saber crashed into the forehead of one of her attackers, rendering his features inhuman and reducing him to a gurgling pile on the floor.

As the other man reacted with a moment of shock, Hemlock threw herself along the floor and sliced the man's thigh, sending him heavily to the floor where she dispatched him without hesitation.

Graybreech seemed to be tiring as Hemlock saw him take stock of the situation.

"Seems like your whelp has bested my men and now I am bested," Graybreech stated while pressing his attack with a wild vigor.

"Aye," responded Safreon as he leapt a low thrust by Graybreech and delivered a heavy blow directly to the Thief's face.

Graybreech crumpled to the floor and was motionless. He appeared to still live, however.

"What should we do with him?" asked Hemlock as she looked around the room for signs of reinforcements.

"He won't trouble us for several hours," said Safreon. "It's best to leave him alive. He's more sensible than most Thieves and likely better to deal with than his replacement would be, despite this altercation."

"What of the gold?" Hemlock asked boldly.

"Aye, what of the gold?" responded Safreon. "We have to have money to survive–I recognize that. This is an opportunity to fill our coffers and we should probably take advantage."

They approached the chest. Hemlock drew in a sharp breath, there had to be thousands of gold pieces in there!

"This is more money than an Elite would have!" cried Hemlock.

Safreon shushed her as the Elite Woman who had been kidnapped began to stir and struggle against the chains.

"Fill your purses while I tend to her," Safreon instructed.

Hemlock began to greedily do just that as Safreon picked the lock on the shackles that held the Woman. She was in shock, but seemed coherent enough to move to safety.

There was an attempt to open the front door of the House then, followed by cries and a pounding at the door when the lock held.

"Quickly, we'll exit the way we came," cried Safreon, guiding the Woman through the door.

Once they got inside, Safreon dragged a desk in front of the door to the entry hall to bar it. He motioned for Hemlock to guard the outside door.

"Stay here!" commanded Safreon and the dazed Citizen seemed to understand.

Hemlock and Safreon stepped out into the alley, tensed and expecting an ambush.

The entire alley was full of thieves. Easily two score of them.

Knives and swords were drawn then, and the afternoon Sun caught their many reflections. The menace in the air was palpable. These wretched souls, now assembled, seemed to exist in some union of malice and harmful intent. They closed in on the pair slowly, with some taking to nearby rooftops, some climbing walls, some retreating to the shadows, and some moving forward in small, agile motions.

Hemlock retreated a step into the doorway and the aggressors seemed to become emboldened at that movement. But in a flash she returned, and her purpose became clear. She had retrieved the saber from the fallen youth and now held it in her right hand in addition to her own in her left. The lesser among the thieves snickered and jeered in response. The greater and wiser took pause, but the advance continued nonetheless.

And then the attack started, furiously, like the crash of a wave against the rocks. First, many daggers were thrown. Hemlock deflected them all with her sabers while Safreon deflected several, dodged several more, but took one dagger in his left arm.

Next came a wave of thrusting rapiers from all heights and angles. Safreon bore this assault first, and seemed to move like a tiger from victim to victim as he parried attacks, clove limbs and still managed to grapple and throw with his wounded left arm.

When Hemlock entered the fray next, it was like a shockwave hit the thieves. Letting her mind rest like she had in the house fight, she tore through their ranks in a perfectly orchestrated ballet of twin steel-wielding death.

Her strikes were precisely timed and each motion was effortlessly predetermined. Throats, shoulders, eye sockets, groins–all were rent in equal measure by her twin blades, which moved at a speed that was almost indiscernible. Soon the cheap Thieves' saber had broken at a point halfway down the blade, but it slowed Hemlock little. The alley soon resembled some twisted and macabre fountain show as arterial wounds filled the thoroughfare with crimson sprays.

After a time, the remaining thieves had the good sense to run away. Judging from the dead, Hemlock concluded the survivors were reduced to one tenth of their original numbers.

Safreon spit a piece of flesh out of his mouth onto the sandy ground as he and Hemlock stood wiping the carnage of the fight from their bodies and clothes. Hemlock had to move carefully among the hewn limbs and pools of blood that surrounded her.

The Citizen who had been rescued emerged from the house, fresh vomit in the corners of her mouth. The scene was apparently too much for her and once she cleared the alley, she stumbled into the crowd in shock as many around her marked her bloody footprints and pointed to the alley.

"We must be gone now," Safreon said.

Hemlock did not answer but leapt up onto the low roof of a shed nearby. Safreon joined her and soon they regained the rooftops and made their way away from the carnage with shouts and voices behind them marking the discovery of the battlefield.

They found an old barrel filled with rain water on one of the roofs and cleansed themselves. Sometime later, they regained their original perch on the old Church roof.

They divided the gold and jewels that Hemlock had been able to carry between them. Hemlock was giddy but she tried to contain herself for Safreon's sake.

She knew that she had never been tested against that many foes. Now she knew more about herself, and the revelation seemed to be that she had no equal in the Warrens except for Safreon. In fact, some twenty had stood against her and she had bested them all with minimal effort. And now she had money: more money than she had ever seen.

Safreon began a toneless explanation. "This will have to hold you over for quite a while. Our paydays do not come often. Be judicious. Give alms to the poor. Get yourself a secluded flat. Your comings and goings should be your own business and no other's. Do not indulge in finery–the people will not respect that. All will know what you have done but you must never acknowledge it. Mark these words or our association will end."

Hemlock turned to make some small merriment, but Safreon was leaving. She watched him move away across the adjacent roof for a time and considered his words, but the gold in her pocket excited her mind with many times the force with which it weighed down her pockets.

With an air of barely contained jubilation, she descended to the market to buy food for her and her sister. Tonight they would eat well. Safreon would have to understand that small gesture for the sake of her family.

##  Chapter Ten

The four wanderers from the City soon reached the foot of the nearby hill which Safreon and Gwineval had chosen to climb. They encountered some marshes at the base which they had to navigate amidst the din of frogs and insects. They were bothered by small clouds of flies which sought to bite them and required regular swatting to keep at bay.

Soon they passed through the marshes, only having to enter the water outright in one spot; they waded across a deep stream which had stretched as far as they could see in either direction, discouraging any attempt to walk around it. Safreon had carried Merit overhead while Gwineval took the opportunity to bathe in the ochre water and seemed to take pleasure and refreshment in it.

After they had traversed the marsh, they began to climb at a slight incline and they were engulfed by the forest canopy. Makeshift paths were found among the roots of larger trees–almost serving as natural stairs in some portions of the ascent. They periodically encountered stone outcroppings which formed natural walls that sometimes could be avoided and sometimes required climbing.

The ascent became steeper and their legs began to labor. Hemlock offered to carry Merit for a time but Safreon and Gwineval declined her offer. She was somewhat offended by their refusal, but decided to keep that to herself and let them deal with the burden if that was their preference.

In some places, the roots of great fallen trees had formed shadowy, cave-like openings in the earth. These they avoided, for Hemlock mentioned that the spider creature that she had encountered had emerged from a similar opening.

Soon they reached a shallow stream, which they crossed with care because the rocky bottom was very slippery. The trees became thicker and rocky outcroppings became more common. They had to climb up small rock faces more frequently now and they could see a hint of a commanding view of the valley below them. Hemlock mentioned climbing a tree to reconnoiter, but Safreon and Gwineval preferred to continue toward the top of the hill where they anticipated an uninterrupted view of the surroundings and the valley below.

They had been climbing for roughly an hour when they emerged onto an expansive rocky summit. They quickly noted something odd. In the center of the summit was a large obelisk and there was a strong feeling of magical power which seemed to move through their bodies like a vibration.

"What is that?" asked Hemlock.

Safreon turned to Gwineval, whose face wore an expression of surprise, dismay and complicity at the same time. These emotions looked a bit odd playing out over serpentine features, but they were clear nonetheless.

Gwineval looked back and forth at Hemlock and Safreon and he carefully placed Merit on the ground before responding.

"I'm not exactly sure," hissed Gwineval, "it does seem to bear the aura of Wizard Guild magic."

Their gazes were drawn back to the Obelisk. It was an unearthly tone of black. It had the form of a flat slab that was smooth and solid on one side with an edge that traced a graceful curve, while in contrast, the other edge was brutally jagged and was formed of unfinished stone.

As their eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, they discerned movement in the air above the obelisk. Small wisps of light, scarcely visible, but leaving trails of gray luminescence in their wake, were being drawn down from the air and into the stone in a great sweeping spiral. As the wisps reached the Obelisk, the latter seemed to hum and surge with power and the wisps did not emerge.

The wanderers were all transfixed at the sight, for it was spectacular; but Hemlock felt she was witnessing something terrible. She sensed a life-force in the wisps and she had an intuition that the magic of the Obelisk was devouring that life. She glanced at Safreon and Gwineval; they both wore dark looks on their faces. Hemlock guessed that they had drawn similar conclusions to hers.

Hemlock concentrated on the Obelisk, using her unique sensory abilities to gauge the magical forces in play within it. There was a strong force of attraction and peace which emanated from the smooth side of the obelisk. But on the jagged side there was a weaker or perhaps a hidden power. This hidden power was one of torment, subjugation and exploitation. The attractive force felt like Wizard Guild magic to Hemlock. It was somehow ordered, as it manifested in all of her senses. She sensed a vast lattice of interwoven spells, each unique to its caster, but cast according to an overarching structure. She heard it almost like a chorus of wind chimes in near perfect harmony. She tasted it like many complementary flavors.

What she sensed from the exploitative force was wild and unstructured. It felt organic,. She quickly diverted her mind from it before the sensory impact became too severe.

"It's a cunning magical trap," Hemlock commented.

"Hemlock!" Safreon gasped, squinting his eyes and leaning his head forward, which she interpreted as a command to be silent.

"I suspected as much, Safreon. It is clear now that she is attuned to magic. That explains, in part, how she was able to enter the Wizard Tower," chided Gwineval.

"Hemlock, you have no subtlety it seems!" Safreon exclaimed.

"Sorry," Hemlock responded.

"What do you know of this obelisk, Gwineval?" asked Safreon angrily.

"Can we destroy it?" interjected Hemlock.

Gwineval looked distraught and shook his head negatively toward Hemlock. Then she saw his eyes turn inward, as if he was momentarily lost in thought.

He then began to relate a tale from his past.

...

Gwineval sat in his seat in the observation balcony. The other observing wizards near him were restless, whispering amongst themselves. Gwineval was intent on the proceedings below.

Below his vantage point, a meeting of the Wizard's council was underway. Each circle of magic had a Wizard representative seated at a large, round onyx table which shone beautifully in the torchlight. One seat was notably vacant. The other wizards at the onyx table looked concerned.

The vacant seat was that of Zaringer, leader of the council, Wizard of the Seventh Circle and representative for that circle to the council. He was late for the proceedings, which was unusual in the extreme.

Suddenly a mist began to gather near the vacant seat, its source not apparent. The mist moved to the seat and began to strengthen and coalesce into the vague form of a man. Strange, inchoate sounds were heard emanating from the mist, and soon they began to resemble a voice, sounding very far and distant.

The wizards at the table seemed unnerved, yet despite their obvious discomfiture, they remained seated, watching the strange phenomenon that was unfolding before them.

Gwineval noted that one member of the council seemed oddly composed. Falignus, the young, cocksure Fourth Circle Wizard, who was a bit of a rising star in the Guild, sat calmly and almost looked serene. Why should he alone seem unfazed by this very unusual apparition?

"Members of the Council," spoke a voice from the misty figure, which now clearly was an image of Zaringer, his voice sounding like it was booming over a great distance.

"I speak to you today so that I might make an announcement concerning the Seventh Circle. My duties have become too pressing of late and I no longer can attend the council. I have arranged for a new Wizard to be promoted to the Seventh Circle and to direct our affairs within the Guild."

A gasp sounded throughout the room as the wizards began to speculate who might be identified for this new role.

"Do not be concerned," the voice continued after a time, seeming to have some awareness of the reaction in the room, "we have chosen this individual with great care and he has been trained in secret for many weeks now. We did it in secret, knowing that this transition might alarm some of you–and we did not wish to have any debate distract us from the transition."

Some of the other Council members were starting to look angry then, and they began to mutter forcefully amongst themselves.

The voice continued: "Rest assured that the Seventh Circle is guiding the affairs of the Guild with great care and will continue to do so for eons to come. I ask that you weigh your reactions carefully, for we will not tolerate any undue disorder during this transition."

The room fell silent at the final remark. The threat contained in those words was clear. Many wizards slumped back in their seats, and though their body language was still combative, no further words were spoken in dissent.

The misty figure looked around the hall and seemed satisfied with the reaction of the assembled wizards.

"The new Seventh Circle Wizard and sole authority for Seventh Circle dealings with the council and the Guild is: Falignus, formerly the representative of the Fourth Circle."

There were a few gasps of surprise at this news, but the chilling effect of the threat of Zaringer was still fresh in the minds of all in attendance.

Falignus, still looking calm and composed, rose from his seat and solemnly strode toward the apparition of Zaringer.

Zaringer's form rose up from the seat and began to fade from view. As it did, a final remark was heard and it seemed to ring far more loudly and shrill than before.

"Falignus' authority over the Wizard Guild is not to be questioned. He, alone, is our representative and his counsel carries the full weight of the Seventh Circle of wizards."

Falignus took the final few steps toward the now vacant Seventh Circle seat and sat down in a measured and assured movement. He paused for a few moments and then spoke to the wizards.

"Fellow wizards, I understand that these events are a surprise to you. The fact is that the Seventh Circle is making unprecedented progress toward a new level of power for the entire Guild. All will be revealed over time. Several events have transpired which have required an increased focus on research in the Seventh Circle. Our uneasy alliance with the Witches continues, and our Oberon supplies grow steadily. Yet we fear that the Witches' power is growing as well, and we must take care to complete our research as quickly as possible. We all understand the value in extending our life spans so that we may develop more advanced spells to combat the Witches."

The room erupted in questions then, and Falignus took his staff and struck the floor forcefully, sending a loud thud through the room. All were silent then and Falignus spoke again.

"Remember that the representatives are the only speaking members of the council."

"Why can't we just unbind the Witch Crags from the City?" asked Malvert, the representative of the First Circle, with a gravelly voice gained from being a scarred veteran and leader of many combat operations.

"A reasonable question," answered Falignus. "Even if we could recall the ancient dweomers that bound the Witch Crags to the City, we would have to muster a great power in order to dispel them. No doubt the Witches would not be cooperative and would attack us. They understand that the City is the engine that propels us through the dimensions. They can harvest far more souls as we travel through the multiverse than they would be able to if they were bound to a single plane. They would not give up that advantage without strong resistance."

The answer seemed to satisfy the room.

"For now, we will increase our cooperation with the Witches. We need more Oberon for our experiments. We have spoken to the Witches and some of you will soon be working with them to improve the soul harvesting process. This work is...distasteful. But you must look at it as the means to an end–a glorious end which will finally rid us of the Witches and secure a golden age for the Guild and for the City."

...

Gwineval finished his tale and added an observation: "I think that this obelisk must be the result of our collaboration with the Witches to generate more Oberon."

Safreon was furious. "Is this what the City is built upon? The subjugation of the weak? We deprive these poor souls of their right to pass to higher planes so that we may have more magical comforts?"

"Comforts?" replied Gwineval angrily. "The magic that the Guild provides keeps the most basic functions of the City working. Structured life in the City would not exist but for our magic. The populous of the City increasingly demands more magic and so more Oberon is required. Plus, the Witches are a real adversary to the City and should not be underestimated. It takes all of our power to counterbalance their power. Our magical research is the key to the eventual destruction of the Witches."

"I liked that Wizard's idea to unbind the Witch Crags from the City. Why not do that?" asked Hemlock as Safreon strode away a few paces, red faced and trying to control his emotions.

"You heard Falignus' answer," replied Gwineval "the Witches wouldn't want to be unbound. Plus, the magical appetite of the City is too great now to go without the Oberon that we obtain from the Witch Crags."

Those words had the ring of truth in Hemlock's mind. The plight of her sister came back into her mind with a painful suddenness.

Safreon rejoined them, looking more composed, but remaining silent.

"So you're saying that the City is dependent on the Guild for magic? What would happen if the Guild stopped supplying magic to the City?" asked Hemlock in a frustrated tone.

Gwineval looked reflective and then spoke: "Some of this is conjecture on my part. Some is fact. We are not privy to all of the information that the Seventh Circle has concerning the origins of the City and our guild. Sadly much is still draped under a veil of secrecy."

"Just get on with it," urged Hemlock.

"I believe that the land upon which the City is built is inherently magical, but that it is a sort of chaos magic. That is why the City phases in and out of different realms. The Imperator originally learned how to control the wild magic of the land and was able to build the City. Sometime after the Imperator and his empire failed, a group of wizards were able to again tame the chaos and to control the wild magic so that the City could be rebuilt and magic spells be could cast with predictable outcomes. The wizards who originally cast this magic were the founders of the new City."

Gwineval continued: "Falignus has hinted that unbinding the Witch Crags could create a rift in the magic that controls the chaos and trigger a dark age across the land."

"That's a convenient excuse to maintain the status quo, isn't it?" asked Safreon.

"I agree that it could seem contrived, yet I still feel that it may be true," responded Gwineval.

No one spoke for a few moments, as all of them again regarded the spectacle of the Obelisk.

Safreon broke the silence, his voice sounding sullen, as if he had withdrawn into himself to process this new information. "Gwineval, what exactly does Falignus, Zaringer, the Seventh Circle of wizards and their Crimson Order have in mind for the City once they complete this 'research'?"

Gwineval did not have to consider his response. "Absolute order achieved through total domination and control."

Hemlock was aghast: "What about the Senate? What about the laws?"

"I rather suspect that the wizards will simply eliminate the Senate and revise the laws as they see fit," responded Gwineval.

Hemlock was appalled. Safreon only grunted, apparently having already reached this same conclusion in his mind.

Several additional moments passed until Safreon shifted his focus back to the demands of the group's current situation. He walked over to the edge of a rocky outcropping and looked off into the distant valley below. After a time, he motioned to the others and they moved north to another vantage point, cautiously keeping the magical obelisk as far from them as possible. Even at a distance of fifty yards or so, the magical energy emanating from it was palpable.

As they reached the northern vantage point, Gwineval remarked, "I see a tower – a Tanna Varran town is down there."

He pointed and Hemlock and Safreon drew close to follow the line of his arm. Hemlock noted an odd sour scent emanating from Gwineval and recalled it from their fight in the Wizard Tower.

"Well, that's settled then," noted Safreon.

Hemlock gazed at the distant Tower. It had odd angles to it that made it seem otherworldly. At this distance, Hemlock could not make out any details on the structure, but was left with a distinctly otherworldly impression nonetheless.

Following this, there were a few more minutes of discussion about the Obelisk and what to do next. Finally, it was determined that they would leave the Obelisk and head toward the Tanna Varran town.

"There is one more point of business," noted Gwineval cryptically toward Safreon.

"Yes, I haven't forgotten. Still, do you think it wise?" asked Safreon.

"Safreon, at this point I do not know if Falignus is friend or foe. Therefore I am proceeding according to my own interests. I believe that by studying the item that I may be able to learn more about its function. The knowledge will benefit both of us–regardless of the circumstances," Gwineval replied.

"All right, please explain yourselves. What is all of this talk of business?" asked Hemlock.

Safreon began to explain: "Hemlock, for some time I have had in my possession a very unique magical item. I have used it sparingly, for I have been fearful of it being discovered by the Wizard Guild."

"I used it to contact Gwineval within the Wizard Tower once I guessed that you had decided to enter it," continued Safreon.

"You may have heard Gwineval referring to the tales of the Imperator and the founding of his Empire. Well these are not simply tales; they are true. And I have one of the Wands of the Imperator that were originally given out to the Imperator's most trusted servants," Safreon explained.

"Safreon, that Wand makes you one of the most powerful wizards in the entire realm," Hemlock stated.

"Precisely," stated Gwineval urgently.

Hemlock cast a wary eye toward Gwineval and took stock of his face, but his features were unreadable to her.

"What do you want with the Wand, Gwineval?" she asked.

"I want to study it under Safreon's supervision," he responded.

Hemlock exhaled skeptically and looked at Safreon. He wore a look of resignation on his face.

"Hemlock, I have given Gwineval my word."

"Having the wand may also be vital for us in case we need to resist Falignus," Gwineval pointed out.

"That may be so," said Safreon.

"How will you do it? How will you retrieve the wand?" asked Hemlock.

Safreon considered. "I can use the magical energies of the Obelisk here. In doing so, I will be able to contact a beast that I befriended in the mountains in my youth. She is a Griffin. You may have seen her on the ledge of the Wizard Tower atrium last night. She knows the location of the Wand and can bring it to us at great speed if so instructed. I usually contact her using the Wand, but in this case I should be able to do so by using the magical energies of the Obelisk."

"There is some risk that the wizards will detect this communication, but it may be our only chance to try it," he continued.

"Safreon, I don't like this," said Hemlock. "Why risk detection just for Gwineval to be able to study the Wand? He can study the wand when we get back to the City," she pointed out.

"I think that we need to consider that we may be gone from the City for some time. Also, Falignus has seen Penelope, the Griffin, and may seek to capture her in order to attempt to learn of our whereabouts. Finally, Falignus may seek our destruction and we may need the power of the Wand to escape him," Safreon explained.

Hemlock was silent, but her arms were crossed and her expression was downcast and troubled.

Safreon glanced at Gwineval and after a nod of affirmation from him, he proceeded toward the Obelisk.

Hemlock started after him, but was restrained by Gwineval. She looked at him with daggers in her eyes and shrugged off his grasp violently. But she did not make to follow Safreon.

Safreon stopped about twenty yards from the Obelisk and began tracing something in the sandy ground with a stick that he had located.

Hemlock heard a stirring from behind them. Turning around, she noted that Merit was beginning to move. She walked towards him while keeping an eye on Safreon, who appeared to be almost finished with whatever he was doing in the sand. Glancing at Merit, she noted that he appeared almost fully restored.

Gwineval approached and noted the condition of the mechanical Gnome. "The magic here has no doubt aided greatly in his recovery," he stated.

"Where am I?" asked Merit.

"We're in the Witch Crags. We're safe. You must remain quiet until I tell you it is all right. Do you understand?" asked Hemlock.

Merit nodded his assent.

Both Hemlock and Gwineval returned their attention to Safreon.

They could see that he stood within a circle drawn in the sand, which he had bordered with various shapes and glyphs. His arms were outstretched and his head bobbed slightly as if he were chanting or speaking rhythmically.

Soon energy began to crackle around him and bolts of lightning played between Safreon's form and the sinister Obelisk. Strange sounds engulfed the hilltop then.

Hemlock covered her ears, for the sound was unpleasant. There was a tremendous pulsating roar which vibrated through her entire body. There was also a high pitched screeching sound which seemed to border on pure noise, yet within it, a strange pattern was detectable that was new and outside her experience.

Then the lightning began to subside and the sounds were diminished.

Hemlock looked toward Safreon with relief and she noted a darkness rising from behind the Obelisk. It was slow as it rose, seeming composed of a thousand dark insects trailing dark glows behind them.

Gwineval cried out in alarm then, for he had seen the darkness as well. They both cried out to Safreon, who apparently could not hear them over the still receding din of the magical spell that he had cast.

The darkness began to take on a form as it continued to rise. Two points of fell red light became visible within it. A great murmur began, rising in volume above the auditory remnants of Safreon's spell. The murmur soon became a bestial growl, which was animalistic and hungry as it continued to gain in strength.

Hemlock began to scream and run toward Safreon. He had turned and seen the darkness. It could not have been more than thirty yards from him as it continued to rise from an aperture in the earth.

Safreon began to run toward the edge of the hilltop and met Hemlock who also turned to run with him.

The dark form had risen well above the height of the Obelisk and dark wings had stretched out from a torso like blackness. The deep red glows had taken perch on the shadowy form as eyes of a most malevolent sort, casting a deathly tint across the hilltop. A great screech erupted from the now formed creature and with a terrible beat of its wings, it took roost upon the Obelisk, landing upon it with a great crash which sent Hemlock and Safreon sprawling to the turf as they reached Gwineval who had picked up Merit.

"QUICKLY! We have roused some spirit of the Obelisk!" Gwineval hissed at incredible volume.

Safreon and Hemlock both rose and followed Gwineval as he ran for the edge of the summit in the direction of the Tanna Varran town.

##  Chapter Eleven

As the trio of runners began a hasty descent down the rough terrain of the hillside (with Merit being carried by Gwineval), they heard the Creature's wings beating behind them as its dark form took flight. Hemlock, Safreon and Gwineval looked over their shoulders as they scrambled down, making for the canopy of trees which lay several yards ahead, and which promised to provide some cover against an aerial attack by the Creature.

The Beast cried out as it perceived them, and with a few beats of its wings, crashed to the ground before the line of trees toward which the group had been running.

Gwineval dropped Merit and began to trace patterns in the air with his hands. Hemlock rushed toward the right side of the Creature with Safreon flanking her.

The Creature lumbered forward, brandishing dark claws and braying with a furious bird–like cry.

Suddenly the dark form of the monster was enclosed in a shimmering field of blue energy. Hemlock and Safreon halted their charge.

"Make for the tree line!" yelled Gwineval as he picked up Merit and resumed his dash, running toward the left side of the Creature and going around it.

As they passed, the Creature flailed against the blue energy field and the field crackled under the strain. Hemlock noted that parts of the Creature's dark limbs seemed to disintegrate into small wisps as the limbs struck the barrier. These dark, insubstantial particles fluttered about before fading away. Looking back as she ran, Hemlock could see that the energy field had dimmed noticeably as the quartet reached the shelter of the trees and continued to run away.

"Can we fight it?" Hemlock asked between breaths as she vaulted a fallen tree.

"I don't know," replied Safreon.

"I think we'd be hard pressed," hissed Gwineval. "It appears to be almost purely magical – and it's an unfamiliar magic."

Hemlock had a moment to reflect on her sensory impressions of the Creature as they ran. It seemed to her that Gwineval was correct. She had sensed a strong aura of magic emanating from it. The closest thing that she could compare it to was either the feeling that she had experienced on the dark stair leading to the atrium of the Wizard Tower, or perhaps the feeling of the magical Gate of Despair, but this was a wilder, more chaotic magic.

Her first instinct when faced with this Creature had been flight, and that was a very rare impulse for her.

After they had taken no more than a few score of strides into the woods, there came a great popping explosion from behind them and an enraged baying from the Creature.

"It's free already! It must have great power!" noted Safreon. Gwineval hissed in assent.

They soon heard the great wings beating overhead.

"We should keep several yards between us as we run," yelled Safreon. They fanned out.

With a great tumult of falling branches, the Beast smashed through the tree canopy and crashed to the rocky floor of the forest nearest to Safreon, who was running between Hemlock and Gwineval. It didn't land directly in front of him, so Safreon darted to his right through the trees to avoid the Creature. Its bulk gave it trouble navigating through the intervening stumps, tree trunks and brush.

As the Creature lagged behind the four runners, it gave another cry and again took flight; ascending above the forest canopy.

The trio of runners and the frightened mechanical gnome frantically descended through the hillside forest toward the Tanna Varran town. The Creature continued to stalk them overhead, crashing through the trees when it spotted one of them. It had attacked more than ten times within just as many minutes and showed no signs of tiring. The trio were not faring as well however, as they were falling frequently during the headlong run and each of them had to spend a great deal of energy to evade the creature.

"We can't keep this up forever," yelled Safreon twice, for he now had to yell to both sides so that both Gwineval and Hemlock could hear over the intervening distance between them.

"There was a cave – a few minutes ahead," yelled Gwineval in an odd hoarse hiss which was clearly audible to Hemlock, some fifty yards distant. "Shall we make for that?"

"We make for the cave ahead," agreed Safreon, repeating the same to Hemlock on his other side.

It didn't take them long to spot the cave. It had a large entrance and was visible from the slope above as a wide outcropping in the rock. It had a small tributary of water emerging from it, running down the hillside. Hemlock now remembered the cave's wide but low entrance when they had encountered it during the climb. Fortunately, Gwineval had taken a moment to step inside during the earlier ascent, and had commented that he was able to tell by the scent of the air that it led to a deep network of caves.

Hemlock was the first to reach the mouth of the cave.

Just as she did so, the Creature, seeing the group through a break in the trees, descended with a cruel shriek, landing on the rocks atop the very entrance which the group now sought.

As Gwineval (who still carried Merit) and Safreon rounded the cave entrance behind Hemlock, the Creature shuddered and drew back for a moment.

All four of the group scattered as the Creature breathed a foul cloud of billowing darkness, which corrupted the spot where Hemlock had been standing with dark energy. The creature shrieked and roared again as the dark cloud dissipated.

Hemlock leapt to her right desperately, avoiding most of the blast. She breathed in some of the dark mist though, and her senses dimmed. The world seemed darker to her; her vision and hearing seemed distant and disconnected. Her nose, mouth and lungs burned.

The force of an explosion rocked her onto her back. The shock helped her regain some alertness.

She saw Safreon to her left, wheeling back to throw a glass vial of an explosive tincture.

Gwineval had apparently dropped Merit and was now flinging a scintillating ray from his hands, scorching the shadowy creature and causing it to cry out in pain.

"Miss Megan, can you get up?" Merit asked, appearing unexpectedly behind her.

"Merit, get back," replied Hemlock as she struggled to her feet. The diminutive automaton helped her up as much as it could.

"Don't call me Megan, either. My real name is Hemlock," she continued through gritted teeth, as she vented some of her frustration at her seeming inability to combat this creature.

The Creature breathed again at Safreon and Gwineval, but they were lucky enough to escape the blast area.

Taking this as an opening, Hemlock bounded up the rocky outcropping unsteadily and lunged at the creature, her twin sabres slashing into its left flank. She watched as the sabres passed through the insubstantial creature without any apparent effect.

She jumped away then, catlike, as the creature swatted at her with its dark tail.

"Hemlock, enter the cave!" cried Gwineval.

"You can't harm it!" added Safreon.

Both of her comrades had regained their footing.

Hemlock noted that Merit was still standing where she had left him. She dashed toward him and picked him up as a roar sounded behind her. She heard a crash that made the ground shudder as the Creature struck at her a moment after she moved away.

She felt the familiar crackle of magical energy as she ran hard with Merit in her arms. She saw that Gwineval cast another barrier spell.

Safreon and Gwineval were motioning to her and running toward the mouth of the cave. Above, the shadowy beast was again imprisoned in a blue magical field, but the field already appeared to be weakening.

They all had enough time, however, to sprint into the cave. They didn't stop running for several minutes, led by a light which Safreon conjured from another potion vial that he carried.

Behind them, they heard the magical barrier shatter and then they heard the sounds of the renewed rage of the creature. It roared into the cave mouth and they heard it shower the entrance with its deadly breath weapon.

But the group had gone far enough into the cave to be unaffected. Feeling secure for the first time since encountering the creature, they halted in a small cavern.

...

Safreon had waited in the evening shadows until he had observed the wealthy Merchant entering his home. Safreon had been crouched in a deep, shadowy doorway in the elite district of the City. White washed walls adorned with hanging floral baskets had surrounded him.

Safreon, being a resident of the Warrens, was not permitted to enter the Elite district. He pondered this as he noted a pair of patrolmen making their way down the lane in which he crouched. The patrolmen wore chain armor, over which fine white robes were draped. They also wore polished iron helms which were topped with long white feathers. Safreon knew that their sight was enchanted to see emanations in a certain magical dimension. The robes of elite citizens had also been enchanted so that they emanated a visible aura to the patrolmen. Any intruders would be easily detected by the absence of this aura.

He had enchanted himself by using the Wand of the Imperator to bind a concealment magic to himself. This would prevent his visual detection, provided that he could remain relatively hidden from sight.

Safreon knew that if his mission in the Elite district was successful, that he would soon wear one of those enchanted robes himself.

He had embarked on his mission because he decided that he needed to attend a meeting of the City Senate, which was scheduled to meet a few hours past sunrise on the following morning. The Wizard Guild was scheduled to address the Senate in order to present a status report. Safreon felt that he needed to observe how the Senate and the Wizard Guild were interacting. He planned to be there to witness it firsthand.

As the patrolmen moved down the lane and past his position, Safreon was relieved. He felt fairly certain that his enchanted concealment had been effective, but if those patrolmen had been bound for the door where he was currently crouched, he judged that he certainly would have been detected.

His thoughts then turned back to the Merchant that he was targeting. Safreon knew that this man lived alone. As a prominent business owner, the Merchant was entitled to attend Senate meetings as an observer, but Safreon had asked around and had learned that the Merchant had never shown an inclination to attend. It had seemed to Safreon that this man was a perfect target for his plan, which was to take one of the man's robes and also to magically bind the illusion of the man's appearance to his own form.

Safreon had decided to wait until the late evening when he hoped that the Merchant would be asleep. Safreon had watched the man's habits for several nights, and knew that, given the hour, the Merchant had likely retired to bed.

He darted from his position in the doorway to another doorway farther up the road, in the direction that the watchmen had traveled. He then skirted a corner to his right and grasped onto a drainage pipe. The pipe ran all the way up to the roof of the three story stone building that contained the apartment of his target.

He scaled the pipe with some effort and emerged onto the roof of the building. The view of the Elite district at night never failed to impress him. The neat, whitewashed buildings stretched in every direction, dotted at regular intervals with radiant lanterns. Different neighborhoods had different floral themes, so each block was accented with a splash of unique color. Though the buildings shared a white washed appearance, their styles did vary. Some were fronted by stately columns which rose several stories to angular roofs. Others featured a series of elegant dormers extending up multiple stories. Everything was white, clean and orderly. This was quite a contrast to his home, and seemed completely incongruous with the wretched conditions in the Warren's worst districts.

Safreon, in recent years, had become increasingly conscious of the political landscape in the City. Within the past year, he had detected a growing rift between the Elites and the Wizard Guild. The disagreement seemed to be centered around the use of magical spells by people who were not members of the Wizard Guild. The Wizard Guild had recently reclassified a number of types of magic from the unregulated class of "lesser magic," to the regulated class of "greater magic." This had met with some grumbling from the Elites, some of whom were accomplished magic users, but did not want the reclusive life of a guild wizard.

He was primarily concerned with the welfare of the Warrens. Few in the Warrens practiced the spells that were reclassified as greater magic by the Guild, with the exception of himself. The newly restricted spell types included divination and illusion. The Elites were now required to purchase potions from the Wizard Guild in order to achieve these widely used spell effects. Safreon was concerned that that could increase the price for the lesser potions, which were in widespread use in the Warrens.

Safreon, who had moved into position on the roof near the Merchant's apartment, saw lights flicker and dim through a glass skylight that he knew was above the bedroom of his target. He had been on this roof for several nights over the past few weeks watching the patterns of the merchant and his neighbors. He knew that the Merchant would next take to his bed, which was very close to the skylight. Safreon was sure that the skylight was magically warded, so he had brought along some potions that he had distilled with a purpose of dispelling the magical wards.

He had taken great pains to conceal his magical activities from the Wizard Guild. The wizards had frequently swept neighborhoods in an attempt to detect unauthorized magic use. Safreon had grown skilled at using the powerful artifact which he possessed, the Wand of the Imperator, to conceal his magical and alchemical activities. So far it had been successful. The same dweomer which he was currently using to conceal his physical presence also had the property of dampening the emission of magical energies. Despite these protections, he was still worried that some Wizard Guild agents might happen to be scanning in the Merchant's neighborhood that night. He was on edge because of that constant danger.

He drew a piece of charcoal from his pocket and began to sketch out a pattern of glyphs around the Merchant's skylight. Once he had done this, and after a check of his surroundings, he drew out a potion from his cloak, uncorked it, and skillfully poured a black liquid along the lines of a graceful curve which he had drawn at intervals around the window. There was a fetid odor in the air from the liquid, and the glyph pattern that he had drawn slowly began to glow and pulsate.

Safreon was able to perceive the flow of magical energy from the skylight into the glyph that he had drawn, because the brightness of the glyph increased. After a minute or two, the glyph seemed to be glowing steadily and had not increased in brilliance any further. Satisfied that the magical wards were neutralized, Safreon moved toward the skylight and threw a handful of sand from the rooftop over the glyph. As the sand fell, the energy from the glyph dissipated with a soft crackling sound.

This was the riskiest part of the operation for Safreon. If the Merchant or a neighbor heard those crackling noises, he would be compromised. As it was, however, the Merchant did not seem to stir, and Safreon was able to cast a minor spell to unlatch the window from the inside, as he watched the Merchant, seemingly sound in sleep, below.

Once this was complete, Safreon gently opened the skylight and cast a minor sleep spell on the Merchant. Safreon knew that this spell would keep the Merchant asleep all evening and well into the next morning, so he didn't have to worry about the risk of being in the same place with the unsuspecting man, should he, if left awake, uncharacteristically decide to attend the impending Senate meeting.

Safreon tied a rope to a nearby chimney and lowered himself into the Merchant's apartment. It was finely furnished with a dramatic interior that opened up onto a three story foyer.

He looked at the sleeping Merchant.

Something stirred inside him in that moment; something that had lain dormant for many months. His posture changed gradually: his back straightened and his jaw thrust upward. Safreon had a vision of himself assuming this man's identity permanently. Certainly, there would be social and magical challenges to be faced while posing as the Merchant, but Safreon knew that he was cunning enough to pull off the deception. Safreon reflected on his years of self-sacrifice and service to the City. Had it been enough? Could he set aside the vow of service that he had made many years ago, a vow made in repentance for what he had considered to be a mortal sin?

Safreon recoiled from these surprising feelings. It wasn't that he was surprised at having the feelings, it was just that they always seemed to wash over him without any forewarning.

He thought about what he had done prior to making his vow, and the self-loathing that he felt in reaction to his memories quickly overpowered his selfish feelings. His shoulders slumped and drooped forward subtly. Safreon knew that he had passed the test. He knew that he would remain Safreon: rogue, outlaw wizard, and crusader for the Warrens.

Safreon located the Merchant's linen closet. The Merchant was a rich man and there were at least forty fine robes in the closet. Safreon took one, folded it, and placed it under his cloak. He then went to the bedside and rolled the sleeping Merchant onto his back.

Studying the man's features, Safreon took a small vial from his pocket and drank it as he placed one hand on the man's face. Safreon experienced a wracking pain and then he gasped and almost dropped to his knees; he was restrained from falling to the floor in agony only by his knowledge of the spell's need for him to maintain contact with the Merchant's face.

Soon the pain subsided and Safreon walked to a dressing table to behold his image in the mirror. It was quite different than it had been moments before.

Satisfied with the success of the transformation, Safreon began to inspect the Merchant's dressing table.

He didn't see any gold in evidence, and he didn't care to look for it, being fairly well supplied in that department of late.

His mission complete, Safreon climbed up the rope, closed the skylight and latched it magically from without. He then obscured the charcoal glyph with some kicks with his boots, and then made for street level and the safety of the Warrens. He intended to return to the Elite district at first light wearing the robes that he had taken, and fully in the guise of the slumbering Merchant.

...

The morning after Safreon's transformation, the wizard Gwineval (who had not yet met Safreon and had known nothing of the latter's recent actions) was marching in an earnest procession. Gwineval was participating in a ritual that the wizards observed of marching in unison to their monthly meeting with the Senate. Gwineval privately thought that the tradition was a bit overblown. Still, he was forced to concede to himself that there was a certain spectacle to the proceedings.

The wizards all strode along a gently winding thoroughfare which surrounded Hemisphere Lake. The lake lay at the center of the City. Gwineval always wondered about the shape of the Lake, from which it took its name. He knew that Hemisphere Lake was fed by a small river which flowed out of the mountains in the east. Nobody was exactly sure where that water flowed from, given the unique geography of the lands that surrounded the City.

As he marched, Gwineval looked at the Lake's shoreline beside him, which was roughly rounded on the eastern side that bordered the Elite district. He then gazed across the Lake to the western shore, which looked uncannily straight, as if it had been enthralled by the looming shape of the Wizard Tower, which could be seen rising above it.

The wizards continued to walk a southerly course around the eastern side of the lake until the winding thoroughfare met a straight road which ran directly east and into the heart of the Elite district. The procession then turned and advanced down the straight road toward the Senate building, which was visible some distance ahead of the wizards.

Gwineval always dreaded these meetings with the Senate. He had no taste for political intrigue, but his status as the leader of the Fifth Circle of wizards made his participation in these meetings mandatory.

Gwineval was an uncomfortable participant in the silent marching. His mind began to wander, and he reflected on his surroundings.

He took note of the ornate olive robes worn by the seven council wizards that he marched amongst. His eye then moved to the ring of red robed, First Circle combat wizards that surrounded and escorted the olive robed council wizards.

Gwineval looked ahead of him then and studied the gait of Falignus, who had then only been appointed as the head of the Seventh Circle of wizards in the year prior. Gwineval thought that in that one year's time, Falignus was already overconfident. In fact, Gwineval had already considered him overconfident when he had just been the upstart young leader of the Fourth Circle of wizards. Falignus was bordering on recklessness since he had taken on his new role.

Falignus had recently taken to wearing a bright red vestment over his ceremonial olive wizard cloak. This represented more than a fashion choice, Gwineval noted disapprovingly, as it was a sign of leadership in the new Crimson Order, which Falignus had started as a way for wizards outside of the Seventh Circle to learn more about Seventh Circle magic. Gwineval had concluded that the Crimson Order represented a dangerous parallel power structure within the Wizard Guild, because it was a group that only answered to Falignus. The Wizard Council had objected to its formation, but had not had the resolve to vigorously oppose it.

Gwineval's gaze then moved to one of the First Circle wizards who marched nearby, his tattooed and muscular arms protruding from beneath his boldly colored red robes. Gwineval noted despondently that he and the entire group of First Circle guard wizards had abandoned their traditional brown robes for the new red robes, which signified their membership in the Crimson order. Falignus' martial message of Wizard Guild dominance had appealed immediately to the combat oriented First Circle wizards. They had joined his group quickly and almost to a man.

Gwineval then glanced behind him at Malvert, the bald, scarred leader of the First Circle of wizards and the only council member besides Falignus to openly wear the crimson vestment. Although only Malvert wore the vestment, Gwineval knew that several of the other council wizards were also Crimson Order sympathizers.

He then looked to his right at Arcos, Falignus' handpicked successor to the position of head of the Fourth Circle of wizards–a position which Falignus had occupied prior to his promotion to the head of the Seventh Circle. Gwineval judged that this younger wizard was clearly under the influence of Falignus.

The wizard Jalis shuffled along in the procession, walking to Gwineval's left. Gwineval knew Jalis as the bookish leader of the Second Circle of wizards. Gwineval thought that the portly man walked awkwardly, yet somehow his gait still communicated confidence. Jalis, Gwineval reflected, thought that he could gain in prestige and power by playing both sides against one another in the power struggle that was churning inside the Guild. Gwineval believed that Jalis' ambitions were greater than his abilities, however, and that Falignus had already seen him as a self–serving liability. Jalis had become a man that nobody trusted. Gwineval felt that Jalis was going to lose out no matter which side won the battle for dominance within the Wizard Guild.

Behind Jalis walked Colberth, the leader of the Sixth Circle of wizards. Gwineval knew him as a meticulous and exacting man, favoring order in all things. Gwineval was almost certain that he had fallen under the influence of Falignus, whose message of absolute order no doubt resonated with Colberth's sensibilities.

Gwineval glanced to his left then and met eyes with Miara, leader of the Third Circle of wizards. In her eyes, he perceived what he believed was his only true ally. As she smiled and looked away, Gwineval thought that she personified everything that the wizards could represent in the City: the qualities of benevolence, liberty and personal responsibility. Gwineval knew that Miara already looked toward him for leadership, even though he had only recently become a council member and leader of the Fifth Circle. Gwineval was the only wizard who had openly challenged Falignus and his ideology of absolute control over the City.

So while Gwineval dreaded these Senate meetings, and beyond that political matters in general, he suddenly found himself thrust into the role of the opposition leader, confronting the Crimson Order movement. It certainly was not a role that he savored, but he had chosen to reluctantly accept it. There simply was no one else to do it.

The group of wizards continued to walk proudly down the main street of the Elite district. The ivory colored stone of the district shone brilliantly in the morning light and the colorful flowers dazzled. White robed men and women walked unhurriedly in the street, and stared at the wizards and gave them a wide berth. Other people in the gray robes that denoted non-citizens, moved more hurriedly, and some of them tended to the many floral arrangements that adorned the buildings. Others worked merchant carts that sold food and other goods, or led horse drawn carts filled with goods. These people didn't even dare to look at the wizards, who proceeded in their ceremonial splendor.

Soon the procession reached the gates of a huge building with a gently angled, overhanging roof which rose to meet at an apex, and which was supported by a series of beautifully beveled columns as thick as an old growth tree, which rose, in grandeur, to a height of several stories.

As the procession of wizards halted, the ornate gates of the Senate building opened slowly, and out strode an older man, wiry and taciturn, who bowed to the wizards.

"Greetings. Please enter," the man stated simply, but with stately delicacy, as he retreated into the shadows of the building, arms outstretched and facing the wizards.

The wizards, who were familiar with the building and the proceedings, filed into the great hall of the Senate, and took their appointed seats, flanked by their First Circle wizard escort.

The Senate hall had been built as an amphitheater, with seating that rose in curved steps around the floor. The many Senators sat in near full attendance and gazed impassively at the wizards. Above the Senators, in high balconies, many other Elite citizens stood and watched the proceedings from afar.

Gwineval found that his eyes were drawn to the balconies for some reason. He felt slightly uneasy but dismissed the sensation, as the old man who had greeted them, Samberlin, first seat of the Senate, addressed the assembled wizards.

"Wizard Council, the Senate greets you," Samberlin began, his slight build spry and demonstrating a fitness that defied the tale of the passage of years told by his grizzled face. "We welcome you and your report for this day, the twelfth day of the fourth month of the four hundred and first year of our reckoning. Let the report commence."

After that final remark, Samberlin took a prominent seat amongst the assembled Senators.

Falignus rose and began to speak.

"Greetings to all of you, Senators and Citizens. I am pleased to report that the Wizard Guild remains strong and steadfast in its role as the manager and distributor of magic," Falignus began confidently. Gwineval noticed how Falignus moved back and forth in front of the seated Senators, and made eye contact with many of them.

"During the preceding three month period, I am pleased to report that we were able to increase Oberon production to one hundred tons, which was reduced to approximately twelve thousand five hundred gallons of liquid. Of this amount, approximately nine thousand gallons was consumed by the emanation of mana energy from our main tower and other smaller Wizard Guild towers located throughout the city."

"We used another one thousand gallons of Oberon distillate for potion production. Of our total production, approximately thirty percent was healing potions, another thirty percent was enhancement potions, twenty five percent was illusion potions, and ten percent was divination potions. Of the potions produced, one hundred and two percent were purchased, slightly reducing our potion inventory for the period. We plan to address this issue in the following months by increasing potion production. As you know, the past months were the first period in which illusion and divination magic were reclassified as greater magic, and the sales of these potions increased by approximately one hundred and forty percent each. We believe that our City of San Cyra is now a safer place due to these new regulations," Falignus continued. At this last remark, many of the Senators muttered darkly amongst themselves. Falignus appeared to note this, but continued unabated.

"Our new Oberon harvesters were field tested last month and seem to be working well. One was attacked by a group of dark spirits during a harvest, and we were able to repel the attack without casualties. We believe that the harvesters will enable us to dramatically increase Oberon production in the future, if necessary."

Falignus presented other statistics to the Senate and received a neutral response at best and muttering opposition at worst. Still, he had not shown any reaction to the mutterings. He completed his speech and then sat down in his chair.

Gwineval saw that Samberlin was having discussions with some Senators seated beside him. The elder Senator then rose to address the Senate and the assembled wizards. Gwineval noted that Samberlin appeared somewhat discomfited as he began to speak.

"The Senate thanks the wizards for their report. The statistics seem acceptable for the most part. I fear, however, that we must bring up a matter of some...sensitivity. It seems that a Citizen of our district was recently apprehended by the wizards in a rather public and heavy handed fashion. This has created some outrage amongst the Citizens. This man's name is Poyer."

Gwineval, who was familiar with the case of citizen Poyer, glanced at Falignus in order to gauge his reaction to Samberlin's comments. Gwineval quickly saw the annoyance on Falignus' face, albeit just barely, but doubted that any of the Senators were able to detect it. Gwineval knew that Falignus was very good at maintaining his composure, though Gwineval also knew that Falignus often reached a breaking point at which his explosive temper took over. Gwineval was hopeful that Falignus would stay in control of himself even in an unusual situation like this, with the Senate questioning a Wizard Guild action directly.

Samberlin continued his address: "Poyer came to the City some ten years ago. Although he arrived without any items of value, he was able to establish proof his considerable talents during his month of trial, and was accepted as a full citizen of the City. As you may be aware, he has great talent with food and may be the finest chef that the City has ever seen."

"The recent policy change regarding the usage of illusion magic was difficult for Poyer. He was an accomplished Mage in his original lands, and relied on the illusion magic to enhance his culinary creations. He feared for his profits due to the high requirements for magic in his recipes, so he apparently kept using his own spells even after the ban went into effect."

"We do not dispute the problem with what Poyer has done, but we ask for clemency on his behalf. He is a valued and loved citizen–and a productive one. We do not doubt that he can be reformed and that we will be able to persuade him to see the error of his ways."

Suddenly Falignus burst from his chair and lightning shot from his fingertips. The lightning bolts struck an ornate statue of an old and honored Senator, which was mounted regally, high on the walls of the Senate chamber, just below the balconies. The energy bolt struck home and sheared the statue's stately stone head right off. The head then fell heavily into the Senators below and it was only through great providence and some quick reactions that none were hurt by the fall of the great piece of stone.

"THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!" Falignus cried, his face reddened and saliva spitting from his mouth as he screamed.

"YOU WILL NOT QUESTION OUR POLICIES ON MAGIC!" he cried again.

Samberlin looked surprised, but held his ground before the raging Wizard.

"The laws that govern our two bodies are clear," Falignus continued loudly, but in a voice that sounded somewhat more composed to Gwineval.

"The Senate holds sway in matters of governance of the City insofar as it does not involve the matter of magic, which is the sole jurisdiction of the Wizard Guild," Falignus continued.

"When you question these fundamental agreements between us, you jeopardize the order that we have established in the governance of this City."

"The matter of the former citizen Poyer is not one for Senate consideration. This meeting is over."

Falignus looked over the body of assembled Senators. The room was completely silent.

Gwineval had watched the spectacle that had unfolded before him with a detached point of view. On one hand, he agreed with Falignus, since it was well known that the Senate harbored wizards that operated outside of the Wizard Guild's rules. Clearly, Poyer had been one of these, had been careless and had gotten caught by the Wizard Guild. On the other hand, Gwineval thought that Falignus should have handled the matter more judiciously. Gwineval believed, along with most Guild wizards, that the Senate existed only at the whim of the wizards, because it had been convenient to have them be the public face of government in the City. It was doubtful that the Senate could ever seriously oppose the Wizard Guild. Gwineval knew that the last time that happened, the result had been the Night of Ninety-Nine Tears: a lesson that Gwineval felt that the Senate would not soon forget. Still, he reflected, generations came and went, and experiences faded into tales and stories. Some foolish citizens had even recently questioned the veracity of the tale of the Night of Ninety-Nine Tears openly. Gwineval hoped that the Senate wouldn't be so foolish as to openly oppose the Wizard Guild again, but felt certain that if they did, the result would be similar to their last attempt.

The wizards gathered behind Falignus and strode from the Senate hall. As they left, Gwineval noted that there were knight guards in full plate mail armor stationed at the doors. Some of them even leered at the wizards through their helmets, although the icy demeanor of Falignus and the First Circle wizard guards seemed to quell their stares somewhat. Fortunately, in Gwineval's reckoning, the wizards exited the Senate chamber without further incident.

After the wizards walked several blocks back toward Hemisphere Lake, Gwineval surged forward to walk abreast with Falignus.

"Do you think that display was wise?" he asked skeptically.

Falignus shrugged and replied: "Would you rather we had a little hysterics in the Senate or a full replay of the Night of Ninety-Nine Tears?"

Gwineval felt Malvert's presence closer behind him and saw an urge for restraint in Miara's eyes, as she also stood behind Falignus.

"You have a point," Gwineval admitted, "but I still think the matter could have been handled a little more delicately. You've made an enemy of Samberlin now."

"Perhaps," Falignus conceded, as dark locks of hair fell down over his noble features. "But I know how Samberlin seeks and wields power. He'll use this conflict to solidify his power in the Senate and then I'll use him as a single point of control soon thereafter. You think me some headstrong boy, Gwineval, but I always plan my actions," Falignus had a hint of mockery in his voice.

"That was no planned outburst, Falignus. You surely plan wisely to account for your temper, but don't think that I don't see the truth of the matter," Gwineval replied angrily.

Gwineval took his leave of the group. He had been tasked with making a stop at a local Wizard building in the south part of the Elite district, and wanted to get it over with.

After he announced his intentions, Miara cautioned him.

"Gwineval, take a guard with you. The events in the Senate meeting may cause a stir in the district," she recommended, her salt and pepper colored hair blowing over her face in the midday wind. Gwineval noted that her features were still appealing, even though she was well into middle age.

"She's right, Gwineval, it would be prudent," the wizard Jalis stated.

Falignus nodded in agreement as well.

"No, I think not. The Citizens will not strike out at us this day. I will go about my duties normally," he stated and walked off, pausing only to cast a reassuring look at Miara, who shook her head in return, in a gesture of mild reproach.

...

Safreon watched the wizard called Gwineval leave the group of wizards and begin to walk south into the Elite district.

"Perfect," he thought to himself.

Safreon had been in the balconies during the Senate meeting. In fact, he had been uncomfortably close to the damage caused by the lightning bolt that Falignus had thrown.

The proceedings had taken quite a surprising turn for Safreon when Samberlin had brought up the matter of Citizen Poyer. But Safreon had been more surprised at the reaction of this wizard Gwineval, which he had observed from his balcony vantage point.

Safreon had been studying the council wizards carefully during the meeting, looking for any hint of a potentially sympathetic ear to his cause. He had been looking for a point of contact that he could establish within the Wizard Guild.

He had initially dismissed Gwineval because of his unusual appearance.

But Safreon had not found any overtly encouraging signs in any of the other wizards. He had thought that he had seen a trace of distaste pass over the features of the only female member of the Wizard Council during Falignus' outburst. But he had not felt sure enough in his observation to take a risk with her.

But then his gaze had fallen back on Gwineval. And Safreon had seen the unmistakable look of distaste pass over the lizard features of the wizard. Safreon had been so surprised that he hadn't trusted his first impression, but Falignus had continued to rage, and Safreon had seen the look of distaste on Gwineval's visage a second time.

That evidence had been enough for Safreon. He had judged that this was a risk that he had to take. He decided to make contact with Gwineval at his first opportunity, since he had felt uneasy about the boldness of this new wizard leader known as Falignus.

Safreon marveled that an opportunity had presented itself so quickly.

He hoped that the emergence of the opportunity represented synchronicity and was not the result of his misread of a situation that might be too good to be true. He watched for any escort that might accompany Gwineval as he split off from the group of wizards. But none of the red robed guards had followed.

Safreon shadowed Gwineval as he walked, and continued to look for escorts following Gwineval at a distance. Again he was reassured to see that no guards followed.

Ascertaining Gwineval's probable destination in the smallish Wizard building which lay only a few blocks ahead, Safreon strode up beside the wizard, who moved briskly.

"Pardon me, sir, may I speak with you for a moment?" Safreon asked.

"You may," Gwineval responded, but did not stop or turn toward Safreon.

"Could you stop for a moment, sir? I will only take a moment of your time," Safreon asked again, not wanting to be in the visual range of the small wizard building during this conversation, for fear that someone might observe their interaction.

"Fine, what is it?" Gwineval asked, turning toward Safreon with a look of annoyance.

Safreon hoped all that Gwineval perceived was a nondescript citizen looking back at him, and not a rogue wizard under a spell to alter his appearance.

"I was at the Senate meeting just now, and I saw what happened," Safreon began.

Gwineval looked at Safreon from head to toe, mildly perturbed.

"Is it fair to say, sir, that some within the Wizard Guild do not favor the policies of Falignus?" Safreon asked.

Safreon saw the effect of that question immediately take hold, as Gwineval stopped looking inquisitive and his features displayed open disdain at the content of the question.

"Whether that is or isn't so is not a matter of your concern," Gwineval stated dismissively and began walking again.

"Oh, you're wrong in that regard," Safreon said, and jogged for a moment until he reached a position walking abreast of Gwineval, "it's a matter of principal concern to me... and to the Warrens."

Gwineval stopped again and had turned to Safreon. "The Warrens? And why would you have any concern for the Warrens, Citizen?" he asked skeptically.

"Speak to me for a few moments and I'll tell you," Safreon replied.

##  Chapter Twelve

Hemlock could still hear the enraged creature thrashing about outside the cave entrance as she, Safreon and Gwineval sat on the floor of a dark, natural tunnel. They were all recovering from the battle at the mouth of the cave and the long trek that they had taken prior to that. Merit stood idly beside Hemlock, apparently in full working order again.

"My sabres passed right through that creature without hurting it," Hemlock noted in a low voice.

"It is possessed of an unnatural power," said Safreon darkly.

"Yes, clearly the creature is formed of some magic that even I am not familiar with. My strongest spells only partially affected it," added Gwineval, seeming troubled.

Hemlock turned to Gwineval, "How's that possible for a Wizard like you to not know this magic?"

"I do not know," Gwineval replied, then added: "though I suspect that Falignus must know of this magic and may be keeping it from the other wizards for some reason."

Hemlock's eyes registered movement from the interior of the cave and she was on her feet with sabres drawn in an instant. She was only barely conscious of knocking Merit back toward the cave wall as she had drawn weapons.

Safreon and Gwineval were also on guard quickly as the solitary figure of a man strode calmly forth from the pitch black interior of the cave.

As he approached, Hemlock could see that the man was impassive. He seemed dark complexioned, but as he emerged into the light, it became clear that his skin was covered in a chalky blue coating. Hemlock had seen men of this appearance before in the City when she had encountered the outlanders known as Tanna Varrans.

"Stop," said Hemlock.

The man continued to approach until Hemlock stood directly in front of him with her sabre point leveled at his neck.

The man look distracted even as he met Hemlock's eye.

"What are you doing?" Safreon asked the stranger, "There's a deadly monster out there. Stay and take refuge."

"Let him go!" intoned a strong, strangely accented voice from deeper in the cave.

A score more figures were now visible emerging from the deep shadows and approaching.

Hemlock kept the first stranger at bay as the others approached.

"You must let him go," instructed the same voice that had spoken from amongst the group, which despite the shadow of the cave, was now visibly composed of both men and women.

"We'll not let this man walk to his certain death," chided Gwineval.

"Yet that is precisely his intention, and you must not interfere," responded the shadowy figure.

"I intend to interfere," growled Hemlock, eyeing the distracted figure in front of her.

"You think to do good by saving him, yet you would actually be causing him great harm in doing so. He knows that his family will suffer and possibly even die if he does not walk out of this cave right now," responded the distant figure more urgently.

"What is this, some kind of twisted punishment?" replied Safreon indignantly.

"Stand aside now, or bear the deaths of many on your consciences!" cried the man in the shadows, his commanding voice reaching a crescendo.

Outside, the great monster screamed into the cave, and the man in front of Hemlock used that moment of distraction to charge past Hemlock's blade, knocking it aside.

Hemlock quickly turned her blade aside and hit the man hard in the head with the pommel of her sabre as he ran past her.

The man staggered, but continued to run toward the cave entrance. Hemlock turned to pursue, but a force held her feet in place and she fell to the cave floor awkwardly.

"Magic!" cried Gwineval and he quickly made a two handed motion toward the distant figures and they all scattered as if struck by a great force.

Safreon, his short sword in hand, ran to Hemlock's side. The magical force that had bound her was gone and she rose to her feet.

Safreon and Hemlock returned their attention to the shadowy group before them, but then a great cry from the beast outside echoed through the cave, followed by an anguished human scream.

"Why?" mouthed Hemlock to Safreon as they all heard the crashing footsteps of the monster receding from the cave mouth and then the all too familiar beat of shadowy wings as the creature took flight.

The group of shadowy figures had reassembled in the cave in the same place where they had stood prior to Gwineval's attack.

"What was the purpose of that?" cried Safreon.

"A sacrifice," stated the distant man simply, sounding impassive again. "We mourn his passing but our people will be safe now. I apologize for the magic spell, but it seemed like the only way that you would allow our brother to pass."

"He was slaughtered!" gasped Gwineval, slightly winded from his spell casting.

"He has made a great sacrifice for the safety of his people and will be remembered in song," replied the figure.

"Isn't that great!" muttered Hemlock loudly and sarcastically.

"Why have you come to our lands?" asked the figure, oblivious to Hemlock's muttering.

Safreon and Gwineval looked to each other, glanced at Hemlock and then Safreon spoke: "We came here inadvertently, and now we seek to return to the City."

"...to the City," mused the figure.

"Yes, the man with the serpentine appearance here is named Gwineval, and he is a member of the Wizard Guild in the City. This is Hemlock and she and I are from the Warrens section of the City."

"And the fourth?" asked the figure.

"Ah yes," added Safreon, "that is a machina named Merit."

"Please approach. Come and sit with us so that we can discuss what has happened." suggested the figure.

After some discussion amongst themselves, Safreon responded for the group: "We will do that."

The four of them walked further into the cave in a state of cautious alert. Safreon and Gwineval both conjured glowing magic which lit the way before them, but little else. This revealed around twenty men and women covered in the blue chalk standing in a large cavern.

"We rarely reveal these hidden places to outsiders," commented the apparent leader, whom they could now clearly see appeared to be middle aged and bore a noticeable scar on his torso. All of the males were clean shaven and had long brown or black hair. They were clothed in well-crafted animal skin garments–the men bare chested and the women's bosoms supported by small elastic coverings which appeared more functional than decorative and did not seem to be instruments of modesty.

The Tanna Varrans drew out and lit torches, and in their flickering light, a vast cavern complex was revealed, extending as far as the light travelled.

"Come," said the Tanna Varran leader calmly.

The Tanna Varrans began to follow their leader and the four outlanders walked behind them, still cautious.

The air was heavy and still, laden with moisture from the underground streams that flowed through the space. The only noise was their collective footsteps, the occasional murmur of a terse conversation, and the sound of water flowing over rock all around. They stepped over small arteries, and at times forded larger ones as the water flowed in knee deep streams over old and stubborn rock.

After a few minutes, they came to a shallow pool which was roughly round and bordered with a collection of squared off rocks which enclosed the pool.

"I am Tored," stated the leader of the Tanna Varrans, as he motioned to all to sit around the circle. He then motioned to his right: "And this is Taros Ranvok. Taros Ranvok is the son of our King and ruler, Pan Taros."

Taros Ranvok was a youth who appeared to have just crossed into manhood. He was lithe, but muscular, and it appeared that he would one day be as powerfully built as the older Tored beside him.

Hemlock noted, as they all sat in the circle, that the Tanna Varrans had an odd calmness about them. Even in the face of the recent death of their comrade, they seemed unfazed.

"We have few visitors here from the City," stated Tored.

"I understand that this is a bit unusual, but we are on Wizard Guild business," stated Gwineval, talking over Safreon as he had begun to respond.

Hemlock risked a guarded look at Safreon whose features wore a hint of surprise at Gwineval's improvised statement.

"We are no friends of the Wizard Guild," responded Tored.

"You may not be our friends, but you will be wise to let us proceed with our business," said Gwineval.

Hemlock noted that Safreon was beginning to frown.

"Are you aware that your 'business' has cost us the life of our friend whom you just saw exit this cave?"

Gwineval made to respond but then said nothing, turning to Safreon.

"Tored, my friend Gwineval's account of our reasons for being in your lands did not fully represent certain subtleties of our situation," stated Safreon diplomatically.

Tored nodded and waited for Safreon to continue.

"Gwineval is a member of the Wizard Guild, but we arrived here as a result of a misunderstanding that occurred between some of the wizards, and the three, ah four, of us," Safreon added.

He then continued: "So while Gwineval is a member of the Wizard Guild, it is not clear that his agenda is in alignment with theirs at this time. Basically, we are trying to return to the City in secret. You said that we were responsible for your man's death – what did you mean by that?"

Tored paused as if considering his response. Then he looked to Taros Ranvok, at his side, more than once before responding.

"You speak well, Safreon, but you attempt to cover for your friend. I sense that even you are unsure of his motives," he stated.

"It is none of your concern," responded Gwineval in a haughty tone.

Tored continued without acknowledging Gwineval. "You four awoke the beast we call 'Mathi' from his slumber on the hilltop, is that true?"

"Yes," responded Safreon before Gwineval could; Hemlock felt content to allow Safreon to speak, yet remained wary of a fight.

"Why did you do this?" asked Tored.

"I did so inadvertently as I used the energy from the obelisk on the hilltop to cast a magic spell," said Safreon.

"The Mathi is a creature of the Witch, whose name we utter softly for fear of her wrath," said Tored. "It is a soul eater and a demon. If it had not found a victim soon, then it would have attacked our Town and done great damage. This we would have had to allow per the ancestral laws that govern our lands. Once aroused, this beast hunts until it claims a person's soul in vengeance. If satisfied immediately, it will limit its revenge to one soul per the ancient law. If not satisfied quickly, it will attack us viciously and take many souls. It will return to the Witch's Ziggurat and offer the soul or souls it has claimed to her. She will feast on them and look in favor on her minion. We are a peaceful people, and the Witch enjoys our souls the best."

Safreon paled visibly at these words and Hemlock gasped aloud.

"What do you mean by devouring a soul?" Hemlock asked.

Tored turned to her and spoke: "If death is a mystery, then our land sheds some light on that mystery for we see the energy of the dead–their souls–drawn to our hilltops. We believe that some spirits cannot or will not make the journey to the higher planes; as they linger, they are drawn back to the earth and the special spiritual properties of this land."

"They often head for the highest points, the hills, in order to try to take the next step of their journey. Sometimes, they cannot continue and remain trapped there. The weaker spirits often sink back into the valleys.

The Witches have learned to devour the weak spirits and enslave the stronger ones; tempting them with the ultimate reward of flesh gained anew. The Witch devours souls and feeds off of her minions to stay alive and remain powerful. She lives in her Ziggurat to the West, around a score hilltops hence.

The Mathi is a powerful type of demon which she sends to guard her soul trapping Obelisks. The Mathi now has the soul of Bradrun, our brother, and soon the Witch will devour and consume him," spoke Tored gravely.

At that last comment, all of the Tanna Varrans bowed their heads.

"What if we kill this Mathi?" asked Hemlock.

Tored raised his head and gazed at Hemlock. "We have not killed a Mathi since the Witch Wars that occurred prior to the great separation – when our land was sundered from our people."

"You mean when your people and land were bound to the City?" asked Safreon.

"Yes, that same event," stated Tored. "We have lost many of the arts of battle over the years. Combat with a Mathi is forbidden by the ancient laws. Plus these young warriors do not know how to battle a Mathi," he said gesturing toward many of the Tanna Varrans, including Taros Ranvok.

Taros Ranvok looked confident as he replied, "My father does not allow this training, but I venture that with some guidance from you, Tored, that we could kill that Mathi and allow Bradrun the peace of his final rest."

"Train us as well, and we'll take care of it, since we started this," said Hemlock, standing.

"Please, do not break the circle," said Tored.

Hemlock took her seat under his calm gaze.

Tored then turned to Taros Ranvok. "I cannot do this – it would be against your father's orders."

Taros Ranvok trembled though he spoke calmly, "Bradrun was deemed high among us and was a great friend to all. He does not deserve to meet his end at the hands of the Witch. These people are responsible for his death because they roused the Mathi. I am not saying to train us to fight it, which my father has forbidden. I am saying to train them to fight and kill it. They can free Bradrun's spirit. They have volunteered to do so."

Tored nodded as Taros Ranvok completed his plea. "You are wise beyond your years, young Taros Ranvok. There is an opening in your father's edict and also in the law, which could be interpreted to allow such training to occur without violating the letter of the law. Yet I feel that such training might violate the spirit of his word, if not the letter."

Taros Ranvok responded after a few moments, sounding even more resolute. "Tored, long have you served at my Father's side and now you serve with me and you honor me by doing so. Never have I used my station to ask you to perform any task or deed. But, on this day, and under these circumstances, I must order you to train these outlanders in our ways. They survived the attack of the Mathi and made it to this cave. They clearly have strength. With the help of your training and technique, I believe that they will kill the Mathi. Bradrun was my friend and I am ordering you to train these warriors and to go with us and lead them to the Mathi."

Hemlock glanced at Safreon and was a little taken aback to see that he looked bewildered. Gwineval appeared to be brooding. Hemlock hoped that Tored would concede and allow them to partially make up for causing the death of Bradrun. She knew that this was a distraction from their goal of returning to the City that they probably didn't need and couldn't afford, but a man had died because of them.

"Taros Ranvok, have you considered how the Witch might react if one of her Mathi were slain?" asked Tored after a long, awkward silence.

"They are outlanders. If the Witch presses the matter, then we will tell her that it was aroused and then slain by them. It is just." The young warrior responded.

"Assuming that there is even a parlay, the Witch will likely guess at our involvement," Tored pointed out.

"The Witch's old laws are unjust and they need to change. I do not fear her any longer. I agree with your views, Tored, that the Witch only gets stronger the longer she is left alone. I do not fear acting against her in this indirect way, as it does not violate the laws or my father's decrees."

"Your father will think ill of this decision on both of our parts."

"Yet he will understand that Bradrun did not deserve his fate and also he will know that the outlanders are making up for their role in these events."

Upon hearing these remarks, Gwineval stood and started to make a stern comment, but Safreon quickly rose and grasped him by the shoulder and guided him back into his seat.

When all was again still, Tored addressed the four: "Do you agree to this course of action: to receive training in our ways of demon slaying and to join us in tracking and slaying the Mathi? Due to the ancient pacts between the Witch and our forefathers, we will not be able to directly help you in this battle."

Hemlock looked to Safreon and nodded.

"We agree," said Safreon simply, with a sigh of resignation.

"Safreon," hissed Gwineval, "this is not our fight. We must return to the City."

"Gwineval, we have accidentally caused the death of their warrior and now he faces a fate worse than death. How can we not act?" said Safreon.

"But we did so in ignorance, and helping them now and diverting from our path may prevent us from returning to the City before Falignus finds us," responded Gwineval.

"Would you compromise your values to return to the City, Gwineval?"

"Isn't our ultimate cause greater than ourselves?"

"And what cause is that? I believe that I live for a cause, but I have not seen you commit to any cause outside of those that are directed from within that Wizard Tower," Safreon replied.

Hemlock noted with satisfaction that this statement silenced Gwineval.

"We agree," repeated Safreon.

The four outlanders and the Tanna Varrans departed from the circle and proceeded farther into the caverns, which the group learned extended far across the land and offered the quickest and safest form of travel below the hilly, haunted terrain of the upper land.

Hemlock inquired about the Tanna Varran ability to fly, but was told that they could only fly for short distances and had limited capability for magical recharge away from the Town.

Later that day, Tored led the group into a wide cavern of singular beauty. Glowing purple and pink crystalline deposits glistened in the chamber in the form of stalactites and stalagmites. Crystals were also embedded in rich deposits in the floor and ceiling of the cavern.

As Hemlock appreciated the beautiful environment around her, she noticed something moving on the floor, far into the chamber.

Seeming to anticipate her surprise, Taros Ranvok dropped back and spoke to her loudly enough that Safreon and Gwineval were sure to also hear him.

"There are Grimoi in this room – lost souls. Down here, they are slow and easy to evade, but do not meet their gaze for too long lest they bewitch you."

"Why are they down here?" asked Hemlock.

"They are drawn to the beauty of the gems. And they are weak and cannot ascend back to the surface to attempt to escape this realm. They are tired and weak, but still dangerous in their hate."

Hemlock took a closer look at the slow creatures, which littered the central portion of the chamber through which they now walked. The creatures turned toward the Tanna Varrans and the four of them.

Hemlock picked up Merit as the pace quickened.

A few of the Grimoi seemed to focus on Hemlock as she passed near their shimmering, pale forms, inchoate as they crawled and stretched across the floor toward her. They were vaguely humanoid figures, but seemed dreamlike and insubstantial.

"They have such baleful eyes," Hemlock whispered to herself.

Suddenly Hemlock noticed that she had not evaded the nearest Grimoi and was but a few footsteps from its grasp. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned with a start to see Taros Ranvok beside her.

"Do not look into their eyes," he repeated, and from that point onward she was careful not to.

She saw that a Tanna Varran had paired off with each of her band and were similarly guiding Safreon and Gwineval.

Once again, Hemlock berated herself for underestimating the power of the ghosts of the Witch Crags and nearly being ensnared by them. She considered how alien the magic of this realm seemed and how sheltered that she had been living in the familiar confines of the Warrens and the City. She recalled tales of her youth and her life before she came to the City, but her mind quickly returned to her present peril.

After a time, the travelers left the gem filled cavern filled with the strange Grimoi behind them, and entered a tighter complex of labyrinthine and interlocking cave passages. At times they had to crawl through barely man-sized openings, while at other times they could walk up to five abreast.

As they walked, the Tanna Varrans instructed the three Outlander fighters in their ways of battle.

They stopped to camp and Hemlock and Safreon were covered in blue chalk, which Tored explained provided magical resistance to detection by the dead and also protection from fear of the dead. Gwineval glared at Taros Ranvok as he approached with the chalk, and Taros Ranvok paused to consider the lizard–man for a moment before moving on to other tasks without attempting to apply it.

Hemlock learned that Tanna Varran weapons were enchanted with intricate spells which they cast with chanted words. Hemlock, using her ability to attune to magic, saw the spell's patterns as intricate, yet uniform in focus; she visualized them appearing like ornate and stylized arrows. The Tanna Varran magic existed in an apparent harmony with nature and seemed especially focused on the purity of the birth-death cycle and the natural circle of life which returned every being back to nature.

The group slept for several hours under the watch of Tanna Varran guards. Gwineval still seemed to mistrust the unusual guides, but seemed to fall asleep quickly once he lay down. At least, Hemlock assumed that he slept, for when she glanced over at him his lidless eyes stared back at her, though without recognition.

After another full day of travel, they reached an exit to the surface.

"We will track the Mathi overland from this point," stated Tored.

"Won't the Mathi just fly directly to the Witch's Ziggurat?" Hemlock asked.

"It would cost the Mathi a great deal of power to do that. It will fly from hilltop to hilltop, engorging itself on revitalizing souls at each stop and then resting for a time. Demons are always fighting amongst themselves, and even a creature of great power, like the Mathi, can't risk entering into the Ziggurat in a state of fatigue without risking assassination by a rival spirit," Tored said.

Over the next few hours, the group made their way through lightly wooded terrain set amongst distant hilltops.

Hemlock was relieved to be above ground again, although the outdoor landscape of the Witch Crags still felt odd to her after all of her years living in the City.

As they walked along a ridgeline in the morning daylight, they saw a shallow, bowl-like clearing below them within which a large group of animals was gathered. The two-legged beasts were covered in a light blue fur and grazed on bountiful patches of grass. Though their bodies were thick and looked much heavier than a man, they had powerful feathered wings on their backs. Their legs were comparatively thin and bent forward at the knee. Their long necks ended in small, horse–like heads and their mouths were wide. They chewed slowly from side to side, devouring great quantities of tall grasses and weeds.

"What a herd. What are they, Tored?" Safreon asked the native Warrior with whom he seemed to be developing a noticeable camaraderie.

"We call them Bosan, which means the Fathers of the Hills in our tongue. They are great beasts and their spirits resist the evil that plagues our lands. We hunt them and use their bodies for many things. We always mourn their sacrifice when they are slain in order to fill our bellies and supply our craftsmen. Watch as our warriors hunt one of the old fathers. His feathers, bones and sinew will be used to make your battle wings."

Hemlock watched as four hunters fanned out from the Tanna Varran band and approached the herd in groups of two. When they reached a distance of about fifty yards, they rose and bellowed a great singing call into the clearing. The herd of Bosan scattered and took to clumsy and lumbering flight.

In a flash, the Tanna Varran hunters' wings deployed and they sailed into the air in pursuit. They overtook one of the Bosan, and its torso was struck and pierced with their spears. It cried out once and fell with a crash into a small copse of trees. The Hunters descended on the kill as the rest of the band made its way down to the scene to assist in harvesting the meat, feathers, and bones of the beast. Almost every part was put to some use or stored.

When the band made to depart, Hemlock noticed that very little of the carcass remained.

In the next few hours, they picked up the trail of the Mathi.

Tored gave them their final training in the use of the Tanna Varran wings: the strangely crafted backpacks which were familiar to Hemlock since she had used one to penetrate the defenses of the Wizard Tower. Gwineval and Safreon struggled with their use at first, but soon they were able to launch themselves from the ground as high as nine hundred feet. Since they were spell casters, they could replenish the power of their wings on their own, and fly repeatedly or sustain long flights.

Hemlock could not replenish the wings on her own, yet she seemed able to use their innate power very effectively. Her power of magical affinity allowed her to use the wings almost as effectively as if they were an extension of her own body.

The Tanna Varrans were amazed when she erupted almost two thousand feet into the air on a single magical charge and then soared back to Earth in complete and expert control. She knew that if she used the power of the wings wisely, she could fly several times during a battle without a recharge.

Soon after the flight training was complete, the Tanna Varrans prepared to break camp and continue stalking the Mathi. Hemlock approached Gwineval and Safreon, who were both strapping on their Tanna Varran wings in the manner that was used for portage. Merit came up behind Hemlock, whose own wings were already appropriately configured for the upcoming hours of walking.

"Miss Hemlock, will you fight soon?"

Hemlock turned to face Merit and replied: "Yes, in all likelihood we will."

"What if you are killed?"

"That won't happen – we will kill this Mathi and free the spirit of the warrior, Bradrun."

"Miss Hemlock, do I have a soul?"

Hemlock glanced at Gwineval briefly and then returned her attention to Merit. Gwineval approached.

"Merit, you are a spirit who has been bound to this mechanical form. You are not a machine – in fact you were...are a man," said Gwineval.

Hemlock looked at Gwineval in surprise.

Merit stood perfectly still for several moments and nothing was said. All the while, however, gears and springs were working furiously on his metallic head.

Finally he responded tentatively, "I am a man? But how can a man live in such a form as I inhabit?" Merit asked sounding skeptical.

"Merit, I believe that you are a product of the Seventh Circle of wizards and their experimentation with ... forbidden magic. I believe that somehow they transferred your spirit from your mortal form into this mechanical form. I do not know the specifics, for Falignus, and before him, Zaringer, blocked my inquiries. But I have been able to glean enough from conversations and attitudes to feel strongly that this is what happened to you."

Hemlock appeared to be ready to respond, but then stopped short, looking searchingly at Safreon, who had joined the conversation.

"Merit, sometimes men are faced with difficult circumstances. You did not choose this path, yet you find yourself on it. All that a man can do in such circumstances is to try to do his best and to make whatever peace he can with things as they are," Safreon said with kindness in his voice.

Merit looked at Safreon, back to Hemlock, and then back to Safreon. "I...I will have to think about this," he said and shuffled off with his characteristic gait.

"Will he be ok?" asked Hemlock, watching him go.

"Time will tell. It will be difficult for him – especially if he begins to recall memories of his former life. But he now walks the only path open to him and he must deal with it. Check up on him, Hemlock, for he seems to feel a certain bond with you," Safreon said.

"This is another stain on the Seventh Circle and the Wizard Guild. Zaringer betrayed our trust and Falignus follows in his footsteps," muttered Gwineval bitterly.

"Why do the wizards follow Falignus?" asked Hemlock.

"He's charismatic and he's smart. And he is principled in certain ways. He is efficient and he works tirelessly for the Guild. Most wizards feel that his positive qualities outweigh his negative ones," Gwineval answered.

"Leadership without compassion will always be flawed," Safreon chided.

"It is a noble notion," responded Gwineval noncommittally.

"Safreon, when will the Griffin arrive? Did the summoning work?" asked Hemlock, changing the subject.

Safreon's features darkened as he replied: "The Griffin should be able to find me magically once she is within a few miles from our location. Still, I would have expected her to have been here by now. Perhaps she became confused when we were underground and is awaiting another message. We will have to deal with that once we finish this battle with the Mathi."

Safreon's voice softened and grew distant. We now seem to be part of great events. The Tanna Varrans move against the Witch and we seem to move against the wizards. Great forces are in play now." Safreon's eyes focused on the peak of a distant hill where they believed the Mathi now rested.

Hemlock noticed that Gwinevalcast his eyes down and looked away.

Taros Ranvok approached the group as they all gazed at the hill.

"The time for battle nears, my friends," he stated.

"We are ready," responded Hemlock.

##  Chapter Thirteen

Merit rejoined the group as they gathered with the Tanna Varrans and resumed their hike toward the hill. This hill, they learned, bore another of the magical obelisks, similar to the one where they had originally awoken the Mathi.

Hemlock walked beside Taros Ranvok. She noticed the pleasing appearance of his body, and his broad faced good looks. Yet when she considered him in a romantic sense, she found her thoughts drawn to Falignus; his comparatively lean physique, his light-skinned appearance bordering on pallor, and his piercing blue eyes offset by a shock of jet black hair. Dismissing such thoughts, she engaged Taros Ranvok in conversation.

"Could there be another Mathi at this obelisk?" she asked.

"It is possible," Taros Ranvok replied, "but this hill has never drawn as many spirits as the others. We have never seen a Mathi here. This has no doubt helped our cause because the Mathi that you fought has probably had to linger here a long time in order to feed. It has probably helped us to catch up."

She looked at Taros Ranvok as he spoke, noting that she was getting used to seeing people's features cast in the light blue chalk that the Tanna Varrans, and now also herself and Safreon, employed. He was about her age, yet she could tell that he was still inexperienced. His tone and demeanor approximated the wizened warrior, Tored, yet she could sense that he was still trying on the mantle of leadership and seeing how it fit him. She had a feeling that he would grow into the role, especially under the guidance of Tored, who seemed to rival Safreon in his wisdom and courage.

As the early evening approached, they reached the base of the hill and began to climb. The terrain was similar to the other hill which the City dwellers had scaled. The Tanna Varrans were familiar with the hills and moved efficiently, leading the group up in haste.

Tored, who was at the front of the group, motioned for everyone to stop as they neared the crest of the hill. He stood watching for a time and grabbed a handful of earth, which he smelled thoroughly. Motioning again for stillness, he retreated back to Hemlock's group. Taros Ranvok, who had been walking beside Hemlock, moved to Tored's side.

"We have reached the Mathi. I am almost certain that it lies in slumber in caves beneath the obelisk, which is on the far side of this hilltop."

Tored looked at everyone in the group, including Taros Ranvok.

"This is our final chance to alter our course of action. Everyone should consider that possibility one final time. Take a few minutes to be one with your thoughts. Let us continue this discourse after I assay the hilltop one final time."

Tored moved back to the crest of the hilltop and all of the group who had heard his words seemed to reflect on them, excepting perhaps Safreon, who glanced at the other group members to assess their state of mind.

Hemlock wasn't concerned in the least about the impending battle. It seemed to her that winning the friendship of the Tanna Varrans could help her and Safreon in their struggle against the Wizard Guild. She felt sure that Gwineval sensed this as well, although he evidently was not entirely comfortable with it. She still suspected his motives and wondered at Safreon's faith in the strange Wizard.

Tored approached again and the group reassembled in a tight circle. Merit was included in the circle, although everyone seemed to understand that he would not be a direct participant in the battle. Still, he wanted to be included.

"Have you all considered one final time whether to attack the Mathi?" asked Tored.

Safreon and Hemlock voiced their agreement and nodded affirmatively. Tored looked at Taros Ranvok and he nodded as well. Gwineval gave a quick grunt of assent, eyes downcast.

Merit spoke haltingly. "The cause seems just, although I am concerned for my friends."

"Well spoken, Merit. It seems that the choice is made," said Tored. He turned and motioned for the group to follow.

Merit began to move and Tored, hearing the mechanics of his small legs, turned and gently motioned for him to remain. The gnome stopped with a small whistle from one of his steam operated pistons. Whether this was a coincidence or some expression of emotion on the part of the spirit of the man trapped inside the mechanical body was not.

The remaining group reached the summit of the hill, where Tored and Taros Ranvok halted.

Hemlock noted the obelisk in the distance, and the sight of it confirmed everything that Taros Ranvok had told her about it. It had the same appearance as the other obelisk that she had seen: black and smooth on one side and serrated like a cruel scimitar on the other. The hum of power emanating from this obelisk seemed less powerful than the other one that they had seen. She saw some wisps of light being drawn into the obelisk, but they were clearly fewer in comparison to the earlier obelisk.

"I'm sorry that we cannot fight beside you, friends, but we cannot violate the pact made by our forefathers and the Witches, as we discussed," said Taros Ranvok.

"We understand. How do you recommend that we engage the beast?" asked Safreon.

"It sleeps in the caves near the obelisk. We would approach quietly and startle it with a loud call. That should flush it out from the caves," responded Tored.

The trio slowly began to move out onto the rocky hilltop.

"This is not our battle Safreon," hissed Gwineval.

Hemlock saw Safreon stop and turn to Gwineval. She approached to within earshot since they were keeping their voices low.

"This is not the time for debate," responded Safreon.

"You realize that the wizards may interpret this as another betrayal by me."

"Yes, we discussed this. You will say that you went along to further your research on the Wand. They will believe you."

"I still don't like this. We didn't need to do this."

"Is it not just?" asked Safreon pointedly.

Gwineval did not respond, but turned away and began moving toward the obelisk again. Safreon and Hemlock turned as well and fanned out to regain some space between them.

As they got closer to the obelisk, Hemlock noted with disgust that when a wisp of light was drawn over the stone edifice, it seemed to be tortured by the sharp edges of the cruder side. This serrated surface sliced into the balls of light as they moved against it, reducing them to small, darting beams which still struggled to escape, but were drawn back toward the cruel stone. Finally, the smooth black side seemed to absorb the rays of ghostly light with a crackle of electrical energy.

Hemlock averted her eyes and tried to block out the magical patterns of the obelisk, which her affinity was mapping out, once again, in her mind.

Soon they were all crouched in positions near a crevasse which yawned before them, directly between them and the obelisk.

Safreon motioned that he would crawl up to the crevasse first. His visage was cast in shadow, as if the obelisk were emitting a radius of unnatural darkness.

Suddenly a dark blur erupted before them and a familiar, hollow bird-like cry rang over the hilltop.

The Mathi had awakened and surprised them all! Hemlock felt the renewed weight of the terrible creature's power in her mind as it soared above them. She wanted to cower against the cold rock and hide. The darkness of the Mathi was weighing on her consciousness and she doubted that many would have been able to resist that overbearing weight without fleeing in terror.

But Hemlock and her companions were not common people, they were two of the deadliest rogues in the City and one of its foremost wizards. Their wills were tested, but not broken and they sprung into action after just a moment of surprise.

Hemlock deployed her Tanna Varran wings and launched into the air with her two sabres already drawn, stretched out before her.

Safreon and Gwineval joined her and they surged above the Mathi, even as it beat its great wings to gain altitude in response. Hemlock could tell that the Mathi was accustomed to aerial combat, for it quickly matched the speed of Safreon as he broke outward from the group.

Surging once more, Hemlock was able to make a flying pass on the creature and rake its back with her sabres. Though they were light weapons, the Tanna Varran enchantment magic that they were now endowed with made them feel as effective as a great broad sword against the darkness of the Mathi. As her blades slashed along the dark form, they left gullies of empty space in their wake, dissipating the force of the dark body. Some of this dark energy splattered on Hemlock, burning her skin where it hit her.

Enraged, the Mathi turned in mid-air and breathed its fetid weapon at Hemlock, nearly engulfing her in a conical cloud of darkness. But Hemlock reacted just in time and willed herself to surge forward; her wings responded instantly by launching her several hundred feet away and well clear of the breath.

Hemlock soared in a wide turn to make another pass, trying to orient herself with the path of the Mathi.

Fighting in the air was still new to her and she worried about her companions, who were less skilled with the wings than herself.

Safreon had managed to gain some distance from the creature and was turning for an attack, bearing one of the Tanna Varran spears.

Gwineval was flying slowly below the Mathi, and as Hemlock watched, he fired beams of searing white light from his hands. He was using a different spell than he had in their first encounter with the beast; he had developed it after speaking with some of the more magically inclined of the Tanna Varran band.

The Mathi screamed as the white beams impacted its body, although Gwineval struggled to maintain his aim as the Mathi turned suddenly and flew toward him. Gwineval was forced to halt the beams and concentrate on his flying again; changing course rapidly in an attempt to avoid the advancing Mathi.

Hemlock called on her wings to surge again to engage the creature before it reached Gwineval.

As she approached, Safreon dove from above in another attack on the Mathi.

The Mathi was aware of him, however, and as Safreon neared, it drew up with a great flap of its wings and swiped a wicked claw at him. Safreon was forced into an evasive turn, stressing his wings. He lost control and began to fall for an instant before regaining control.

The Mathi took advantage of this opening, breathing its dark energy at Safreon.

Safreon flew away with a burst, but his right arm was covered in the foul, black mist. His features were contorted in agony.

"Safreon, make for the ground!" Hemlock exclaimed.

The Mathi, sensing Safreon's wound, beat its wings strongly in pursuit, but was stopped short as a pulsing white net suddenly enclosed it, ending in a rope-like bolt of energy extending back to Gwineval. Gwineval held the beast back with supernatural strength, though he struggled greatly with the effort and his flight was erratic.

Hemlock did not hesitate as she flew toward the Mathi, noting with some relief that Safreon had managed a rough landing on the hilltop near the obelisk.

She knew she needed to kill the Mathi quickly, for Safreon might not be able to defend himself in his wounded state.

As she approached the beast, she reached that stillness of the spirit which always preceded her most violent outbursts.

Hemlock reached the front of the creature and pulled up sharply with her wings.

Though it was constrained, the Mathi was not helpless, and struck out at her from within the net of energy. She avoided the clawing strikes with small bursts from her wings, and began stabbing at the creature between the holes of the magical net. She noticed that her blade accidently strayed against the net and it offered no resistance.

She disregarded the intervening magical net and began to swing her sabres with great speed through the arms, head and torso of the Mathi. It continued to struggle, but with each slash, it seemed to lose energy.

Hemlock's face and arms burned as she was covered with rivulets of black energy, which sprayed from the creature's wounds like blood.

It tried to breathe on her again, but with little force.

Hemlock surged and struck, swinging away from her body and rotating the sabres in her wrists repeatedly. She sensed that her wings were losing power, but still she continued.

Gwineval's magical net finally dissipated, but under the force of Hemlock's attacks, the Mathi was losing a coherent form. Within the remains of its huge, dark torso, Hemlock began to discern a smaller, man-like shape in the outer darkness. This inner being was writhing in pain, eyes and mouth visible in a glowing, dull red.

Hemlock pressed her attack as the Mathi began to fall. Gwineval flew near the melee, but so great was the speed and force of Hemlock's attack, that he did not enter the fray.

She slashed the beast over and over with renewed ferocity as it fell.

The man-like form was all that was left of it now, and as it fell, Hemlock soared and turned, trying to strike out at it.

Still alive and struggling, the dark form of the Mathi, now diminished, struck the hilltop with great force, causing the earth to tremble, seemingly for miles.

Hemlock and Gwineval landed beside it.

The Mathi moved low and quickly as it scrambled for the cave from which it had ambushed them.

Hemlock proved to be too quick for the beast, however.

Wherever it dashed, she met it there and raked its body with a ferocious slash.

Soon, the Mathi was unable to move and lay dissipating on the rock of the hilltop.

Hemlock was poised over the dark form, which still had a presence of great malice, even in its helplessness.

Safreon approached. He was clearly in great pain, but was still able to walk. Gwineval supported him as Hemlock was poised to finish the Mathi.

"Hemlock, stop. I will bear the burden of slaying the beast," said Safreon, pushing off Gwineval's help and striding forward with the Tanna Varran spear which he still grasped with his left hand.

"Believe me, it is no burden," responded Hemlock, and before Safreon could intervene, she slashed the Mathi with her rapiers one final time. With an echoing cry, it dissipated completely.

"Hemlock!" Safreon yelled weakly. He dropped the spear and grasped her violently.

"Haven't I taught you anything? Don't you understand the burden that you will bear for the rest of your life when you kill? Never rejoice in a kill, it will weigh on you over the years and be an even heavier burden!"

"That thing almost killed you, Safreon! I feel no sympathy or guilt. I'm sorry but I don't!" Hemlock screamed in response and looked angrily at his hand which still grasped hers. But she did not struggle.

Safreon let go of her like one would cast off garbage, and he glared at her.

Suddenly, the group was distracted by light near the rocky ground at the point of the Mathi's passing. A pale light was forming there. At once, a bright point of light rose unerringly skyward and bolted into the stars above.

"So passes Bradrun," said Tored loudly and looking skyward. The Tanna Varrans had approached but had remained around thirty feet away.

After a moment, the Tanna Varrans came closer and tended to Safreon and Hemlock with a salve. The salve eased the many spots where Hemlock's skin still burned from contact with the darkness of the Mathi.

Safreon was laid down on the rock and tended by several Tanna Varrans, including Tored.

Hemlock and Gwineval stood at a distance observing, feeling that Safreon was in capable hands.

Taros Ranvok approached Hemlock.

"How bad is he?" asked Hemlock.

"His right arm was burned badly by the Mathi's breath. He is developing a fever and he will be sick for a while. The Mathi's breath has killed many of our people according to Tored, yet he says that Safreon's spirit is strong and that he will be ok by the look of it. He'll need some time to recover."

"Like I said, this was never our fight," said Gwineval, with a note of scorn in his voice.

Taros Ranvok regarded Gwineval and Hemlock before responding. "You have acted bravely and we will not forget this. Return with us to our town. Safreon can heal there and then you can return to the City. We should leave this area soon."

"What's the hurry?" asked Hemlock.

"The Witch will soon learn of the passing of her minion. We are close to her Ziggurat now and we should return to the safety of our town."

Gwineval nodded once and Hemlock agreed. Safreon was borne to the hillside by the Tanna Varrans and once there, a litter was constructed for him.

##  Chapter Fourteen

Hemlock had knelt between two barrels, which had easily concealed her ten-year-old stature as she had watched the strangest sight that she had ever seen. A boat was sailing up the river, garishly colored, with no oarsmen and only a smallish sail that had flapped uselessly in the slight breeze. Hemlock had wondered at how the boat had glided smoothly through the oncoming current toward the docks as if twenty men had been rowing it. Behind it, two more vessels had entered her view; they had used the same mysterious source of locomotion as the first boat had used.

A jubilant man dressed in a long, rich yellow robe and wearing a red bandana on his head exited the first boat and approached the local townsfolk. Hemlock heard him asking for a merchant. Behind this man, less ornately adorned men and women began to move on the decks of the boats and loaded carts with goods that they brought up from the cargo holds. Hemlock caught a glimpse of some exotic clocks and other larger items, the likes of which she had never seen. The men and women on the decks all moved with an apprehensive quickness, as if they feared something. Many stole a look back downriver as they moved down a gangplank, pulling carts laden with goods. They hurried into the village, moving in the wake of the yellow-robed man.

Hemlock waited until the other two boats unloaded their cargo in a similar fashion, and then approached the first boat, which was unmanned, save for one fellow of dim-witted appearance. He was carrying an imposing scimitar tucked into his belt, however, and looked the part of one who had used it.

As she knelt on the dock, concealed behind two barrels, Hemlock thought back to her stepfather and the strange feral look that had been in his eyes the night before as he had entered her room; Hemlock also recalled how he had beaten her Mother when she had intervened. It made Hemlock physically ill even to think of it. She needed some time away and some time to think. She even considered the possibility that she could start a new life somewhere else, far away from her stepfather.

After she wrestled her way through a long period of contemplation, she crept up the gangplank and onto the boat, and then skittered down into the hold, easily evading the gaze of the dim-witted watchman.

It was dark and damp in the hold, lit only by several open portholes. She felt a thrill as she realized that she was free there in that dark place. She knew that nobody was aware of her presence, and she was content to sit quietly and enjoy that feeling for a while, careless of the world around her.

After a time, she heard a booming voice that she recognized as the man in the yellow robe, as he concluded his dealings with a local merchant. She also heard the shuffle of feet and the loud clatter of carts being pushed over the staggered planks of the dock.

"No, my friend, where we return to, you cannot follow–unless you intend to never return to this place," she heard the man in the yellow robe say in response to someone, which he quickly followed with a belly laugh.

Hemlock considered that remark with some concern, but the pain of recent events was too great for her to reconsider her decision. Yet some part of her protested that she had made a momentous decision when she had decided to board the boat.

She moved to the rear of the cargo hold as the sailors and laborers descended into the hold and loaded goods from her village into it. Hemlock could see that they had traded for grain, cloth, and even some iron ore. Around her, Hemlock noted barrels and crates of strange objects. Fine weapons were visible there as well as strange tunics and fine robes like many of these men and women on the boat wore. There were also ornate children's toys. If these were the goods that these men had traded to her village, Hemlock realized what a stir this would cause.

Suddenly she had a pang of regret: she desperately wanted to see the look in her sister's eyes when she saw these wondrous toys. She thought fondly of her younger sister, and then an image entered her mind uninvited; an image of the animalistic look in her stepfather's eyes directed toward her sister. Hemlock shuddered at the thought. Almost crying out, she leapt up and began to run for the ramp leading up to the deck, heedless of the danger of being detected by the strange crew of the vessel.

"Hemlock!" a voice whispered to her urgently.

Hemlock quickly ducked behind a crate and turned toward the voice. Sitting behind a barrel near the exit from the hold, with one of the oddly crafted toys in her hand, was her young sister. Hemlock thought that she had never seen something as beautiful as her sister was to her in that moment, even clothed as she was in a coarse and dirty tunic. Her sister's hair was blond and curly; her eyes were blue and innocent, framed as they were in a face of flawless skin. The look of unbridled joy in her sister's eyes made Hemlock's heart swell.

"I followed you here. We should get back, Hemlock! But can I take one of these?" her sister asked pleadingly, as she held up a beautiful brass horse with wheels on its feet.

But suddenly there was a great shudder, and the boat moved with unnatural force. The movement hurled them both to their hands and knees, along with many of the objects in the various crates and barrels. Hemlock considered then, as she lay on the floor of the hold, and the scent of the varnish from the wooden hull filled her nose, that the vessel that her and her sister had boarded was no ordinary boat; and the full magnitude of her decision finally washed over her. She looked at her sister again, and saw that she looked scared and excited at the same time. Hemlock then felt a pang for their mother, who she loved dearly despite her having become distant since the death of their true father.

Hemlock vowed to herself then that she and her sister would return to their mother one day, when everything was right in the world again.

...

The Witch bolted up suddenly and stood erect before her ornate throne.

"A Mathi has been slain," she cried to herself with an unspoken thought as the shocking sensation of the Mathi's magical death cry still echoed in her mind. Even though she considered the Mathi to be brutish and simple minded, they were still valuable to her as (sometimes incorrigible) allies. The Witch knew that they were stubborn dark spirits who developed great power through their sheer ferocity, and did so outside of the purview of the Witches. Once formed, they were too powerful to ignore, and so the Witches tamed them with souls and the promise of an easy life guarding and exploiting a remote area.

Below her position on a raised dais, a throng of attendants rushed up marble stairs to attend to their Queen. A gesture from the Witch restrained them.

She was beautiful, wearing a shimmering white gown that revealed her pale flesh in perfect form. Upon her head rested a glimmering crown of silver, polished so that it shone brightly. To the living, her beauty would have seemed ethereal, but imbued with a certain quality of morbidity and decay. Even the Witch, in her vast power, could not weave magic strong enough to remove a small shadow and hint of death from her form and surroundings.

The dead had long since deceived themselves, however. They were not distracted by or even aware of this reality of decay, as those few had been who had beheld her and her terrible throne room through mortal eyes.

The throne room rose around the Witch, cathedral-like in its scope and grandeur. It was bathed in a pale green and baleful light. Long and ornate tapestries hung in glory from the high vaulted ceilings, the decay and mold on them invisible to dead eyes.

When the Witch spoke, her commanding voice echoed supernaturally through the massive chamber, which stood atop her ziggurat. Her booming voice was heard throughout the entire stepped pyramid, which extended down several levels below her feet.

Each level of the ziggurat housed spirits of increasing cruelty and malice, constantly scratching and clawing their way above their weaker brethren, but always held down and in check by the power of the Witch at the top.

How these spirits dwelt within the ziggurat and why was a great mystery. Scholars and mystics had often wondered from afar, trying to piece together the fragments of information that would emerge from the Witch Crags perhaps once in a generation–when some errant traveler or lost soul would somehow return from the Witch's lair unscathed or perhaps leave a journal of their final days in that despondent environment, to be found by some other and returned to the world of Men.

What had been pieced together was that at the core of and giving sustenance to the lowest levels of the Pyramid, was the Oberon, which the Witch's corporeal agents fed into vast underground stockpiles and evaporated in huge boiling cisterns whose magic-laden fumes broiled up through inchoate systems of tunnels which culminated in foul orifices that fed into the upper levels the ziggurat.

Above the lowest level, the dark spirits existed in an eternal struggle with one another, feeding off of the energies of those below them and being sapped in turn by those above them. It was a brutal system that was thought to have produced the Witches themselves.

The lower levels of the ziggurat were populated by the hungry ghosts who saw the massive energies of the Oberon that the spirits in the upper levels gorged upon, and were drawn toward advancement by desire for that power, or perhaps by fear of a return to their wayward and seemingly aimless existence in the ghostly realm of the Witch Crags.

In these lower levels, the spirits were non-corporeal and closest in makeup (though far greater in evil intent) to the Ghosts that inhabited the Witch Crags outside of the Witch's vale. It was said that these non-corporeal spirits were heard and felt more than seen by such mortals as ever managed to lay eyes upon the interior of the ziggurat and retain enough of their sanity to communicate with the living afterwards.

Some heroic souls told tales of reaching the second, third and even fourth levels. It was said that by the fourth level, the ghosts and spirits took on a demonic quality and that their malice began to take shape in hideous mockeries of the human and animal forms, sometimes in horrid combination. On these levels, despicable exploitation of the flesh was common, with beasts feeding upon one another in an orgy of fornication, consumption and excretion.

On the fifth and sixth levels, souls were said to manifest in a dark beauty which could enchant mortal eyes. Their comeliness was hard and cold, like steel poised for the strike, and in their eyes a bale fire could be seen, in which burned jealousy for those more beautiful and powerful than they, and simmered in disdain for those lesser than them in their esteem. Sometimes one of their lot would fall from power and begin to decay, and these would be cast back down to the lower levels where they would be gleefully devoured by those below. And perhaps their passing would enable some from below to then have the power to ascend.

At the seventh level, which was the top level, lived the Witch: more beautiful and terrible than any other in her realm. All other souls were subordinate to her and their power flowed up to her; all of the cumulative power of the Oberon and the spirits of the Pyramid coursed through her body.

The ziggurat was her home and the center of her power. She might leave it for some time but she knew that there were always those on the sixth level who thought themselves strong enough to ascend to challenge her. These she always had to keep in check, and because of that, she would not leave the ziggurat except in times of dire need. And in such times, she might order all within the ziggurat to sally forth and she might shut off the vast Oberon producing cisterns in order to force the lower spirits to follow. But this action was risky for her, for outside of the ziggurat, all of the souls would be restless and hard to control. If they mutinied, there was a chance that she would not have the power to control them.

Thus it was that the Witch and her kind, after warring with the Tanna Varrans for many years, sought a non-aggression pact with them. The Witch knew that in a few years' time, she and her horde would be so flush with Oberon that they would stream from the ziggurat in a rage, and overrun the pathetic Tanna Varrans, whom her agents informed her had lately turned toward pacifism.

"A Mathi has been killed by Tanna Varran magic," the Witch declared angrily. Every dark spirit in that accursed ziggurat was called to attention by the power of the Witch's voice. As she spoke, a hand motion beckoned her retinue to approach.

A few dozen robed attendants approached her, some tending to her gown, whilst others carried teapots and trays in a bizarre mockery of human ritual, for the Witch and her kind took neither food nor drink any longer.

In her heart, the Witch's immediate desire was great and terrible vengeance for the slaying of the Mathi. But as her advisors streamed into the throne room, her cunning nature took over and her mind began to explore other possibilities.

She wondered whether the Tanna Varrans intended to provoke battle and war after all of the intervening decades since she and her lesser sister Witches had made the pact of peace with them? Had they learned of her long term plans to exterminate them and also deliver the Witch Crags from its subjugation at the hands of the City and the Wizard Guild?

Are the wizards involved in this?

Her chief advisor strode boldly forward, his youthful and beautiful appearance making obvious his stature and power in that dark ziggurat.

"What will you do, my Queen?" he asked.

She had no intention of revealing her plans to this one, whom she knew entertained ambitions to unseat her, though his maneuvering was so poorly planned that its progression was almost an amusement to her.

"I must speak to my sisters about it," she replied forcefully after some moments, her sweet but commanding voice causing all in the chamber to bow their heads in deference.

But the Witch had something different in mind. Her sisters were also rivals, each jealous of her ultimate supremacy. Her ziggurat was the largest, and she controlled the most hilltops. Her agreement with the foul wizards, though distasteful, had allowed her to harvest many more souls then her sisters had been able to. But she had to make certain to keep that advantage. Soon the wizards were bound to approach her sisters to place their Obelisks with them as well.

If something new was going on with the Tanna Varrans, the Witch wanted to be the first to know about it. And she didn't trust anyone else with the task to find out. She resolved to leave her dark pyramid in secret in order to find out for herself what the Tanna Varrans were planning. Then, if she could, she hoped to use this information to her maximum benefit, involving others only where it suited her designs on total domination.

...

Hemlock noted that Taros Ranvok seemed to be getting more introspective as they approached the Tanna Varran town. During the conversations among the Tanna Varrans, she had heard some references to his father, Pan Taros, the leader of the town, and it was clear to Hemlock that the young warrior was anticipating a confrontation with him upon their return.

Safreon spent a few hours in the litter resting and nursing his wound, but much to the surprise of the Tanna Varrans, elected to walk once he had awoken. His burned arm had been lightly wrapped and placed in a sling.

"How is the arm?" asked a visibly relieved Hemlock.

"It is painful, but bearable. Fortunately I carry with me some salves which I was able to administer to speed the healing," Safreon responded mutedly.

Hemlock felt the weight of their exchange on the hilltop bearing down on the conversation. She chose to walk on in silence, leaving the older man alone with his thoughts.

Finally, after a return to the caves for two days and then an uneventful hike of some hours over the valley floor, they reached the Tanna Varran town, which was called Tor Varnos. As they had seen from the hilltop several days prior, it consisted of a tower built with an angular sensibility which was foreign to the City dwellers. The tower itself was composed of several individual and interlocking buildings which were connected by walkways that ran both within the outer silhouette of the tower and also around its outer edges.

The angles of the many walkways, which crisscrossed the buildings as they rose along the outside of the tower–and even the window sills, which were placed at surprising heights and never quite rectangular–seemed to have been formed according to an overarching design.

Hemlock sensed a weak aura of magic emanating from the entire vast structure, as if the construction process itself had imbued it with magical properties. The magic she sensed was one of warding.

The tower was built on a raised bluff which was surrounded by a wide, shallow gulley which served as a rainwater runoff from the upper part of the valley. Ringing the exterior of the circular bluff were many tightly planted trees, the trunks of which formed a natural barrier around the tower. Ramps extended down from the sides of the tower above the trees, crossed the sunken gulley, and met the ground at the other side.

The group approached one of these ramps, where a greeting procession was taking position. Two score of brightly festooned men made up the procession, wearing bright red robes and flamboyant hats which seemed to burst forth in yellows and oranges. Their demeanor, in contrast, was stoic. Around them, children and young adults thronged jubilantly.

The procession stopped and lined the upper part of the ramp as Taros Ranvok, Tored, Hemlock and the others reached the foot of the ramp and halted.

A short ceremony began, and the brightly dressed men blew crude horns and clashed small cymbals in their hands in unison. Words of greeting and prayers of safety were spoken.

"Bradrun has fallen and given his life for Tanna Varra," proclaimed Tored loudly when there was a break in the restrained revelry.

At this, the horns and the cymbals resumed, though Hemlock saw no joy in the eyes of the Tanna Varrans at this news.

Hemlock noticed Taros Ranvok gazing up toward the top of the Tower. She followed his gaze and saw, many stories above, a lone figure adorned in similar raiment to the colorfully dressed men lining the ramp.

Taros Ranvok raised his arm in greeting and the figure above returned the gesture.

This seemed to be the final step in the unexpected ceremony and Taros Ranvok, Tored, Hemlock and the rest of the group began to ascend the ramp and enter the Tower.

After reaching the top of the ramp and exchanging a few pleasantries with the townsfolk, they climbed up a long, wide, winding stair and rose higher and higher over the valley floor. Hemlock noted that the buildings were large and mounted centrally on the structure. As she caught glimpses into them through open doors and windows, she saw open spaces within that were free of any walls or interior doorways.

The angles of the place still mystified her–and in a way, also thrilled her. She felt as if she were walking within the trace lines of a giant three dimensional rune. The power of the place was palpable.

She noticed that many of the Tanna Varran wing packs and spears were stored along the exterior stairs and walkways. What this did to make the town appear battle ready was lessened in effect by the apparent state of disrepair of these items, which Hemlock found quite curious.

They were escorted to a large chamber, within which many people milled about. Many families were gathered in the room, each occupying a distinct space wherein they had laid bedrolls, small lanterns, clothes, racks of beads and other personal effects.

"This is the chamber of my family. You will lay here with us in honor during your stay," said Taros Ranvok.

"Safreon, do you require any care from our physicians?" he asked.

"My own ministrations appear to be having good effect. It will not be necessary, thank you," replied Safreon.

The Townsfolk in the room grew silent and watched the group as Taros Ranvok led them across the floor to the far side from the door. He showed the newcomers to a corner where some bedrolls had been placed, apparently in preparation for their visit. After a few moments, cautious conversation began in the room again and people stopped staring.

Taros Ranvok then showed them an adjacent room, relatively smaller than the main room, but still quite substantial by City standards. It was a communal bath and toilet.

As they returned to their space in the larger common room, Taros Ranvok bid them a temporary farewell as an older man, in an ornate robe that suggested authority, entered the room. He was greeted with deference by all in his vicinity and Taros Ranvok approached him.

Hemlock watched as the older man greeted Taros Ranvok and then spoke with him. The older man glanced their way a few times, nodding, and then his face colored in anger. He motioned for Taros Ranvok to leave the chamber and they walked off together in silence.

Hemlock noticed that Safreon had also been watching the exchange.

"The Father seems displeased," he noted.

"Truly," she responded.

"We may have some diplomatic work ahead of us here. We need to secure our stay here for a few days, at least, before we return to the City," stated Safreon soberly.

"Safreon, are you up to all of this activity, given your wound?" asked Gwineval, joining the conversation.

In response, Safreon unwound the cloth wrapping his arm and it showed only a light redness, where before the skin had been partially charred and peeling.

Gwineval nodded his approval and Hemlock was impressed but not surprised, having witnessed Safreon's healing talents many times prior.

"As you know, there appears to be an issue between the older man, who I presume is the father, Pan Taros, and Taros Ranvok. I expect that we will soon be summoned to explain our role in this. I will serve as our spokesman at that time," Safreon explained, with a sharp glance at Gwineval.

"If we are able to secure a few days stay here, then I will again signal the Griffin to meet us. Gwineval, you will then have some time to inspect the Wand as we agreed. After that, I recommend that we return to the City on the back of the Griffin, one at a time. I think this is preferable to risking an overland journey in this hostile environment," Safreon continued.

"I concur," responded Gwineval, looking expectant but also a little apprehensive. Hemlock was surprised that his lizard-like visage still conveyed such subtleties as she nodded her approval.

Safreon nodded in response and left them, making his way into the bathing chamber.

Hemlock joined Gwineval, who was unrolling his bedroll and looking tentatively toward the bath chamber. Then she noticed a window to the outdoors, close to their space. It was equipped with a heavy shutter, but this was open and rested unobtrusively to the side. A light cloth curtain was mostly pulled aside, letting in the cool evening air.

Hemlock rose and looked out the window and over the evening view. She had never seen the Witch Crags at night. The Tanna Varrans had them travel via underground caves when possible–and especially at night.

Outside, the landscape that she saw was rendered in dark blues and blacks, below the tower and to the distant hills, which were silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The landscape was dotted with streaks of light and pockets of glowing mist, all of which seemed to move randomly across the valley. Above the hills, more streaks of light were visible, and a number of what appeared to be shooting stars, played across the night sky.

Looking down, Hemlock could see the gabled roofs of adjacent and lower rooms, and far below she could see one of the long, straight entry ramps–which had been raised up to seal the Tower.

As her eyes wandered to the ground directly below the tower, she noted a dull, insubstantial figure moving slowly with a staggering gait.

The Spirits. They are everywhere at night, she noted, having been told this many times, but observing it herself for the first time.

Hemlock had been so captivated by the view outside the window that she only sensed the approach of Taros Ranvok at the last moment.

His hand on her shoulder was not a shock, but was a surprise. She turned, mildly disengaging his touch and looking into his eyes.

She saw a guarded fondness there, which surprised her. Taros Ranvok was an attractively built warrior, a prince and a person of principle. But Hemlock did not feel any attraction to this young man, though she felt that he possessed all of the qualities that should engender such feelings. An image of Falignus emerged unbidden from her subconscious, bringing a thrill of excitement with it.

Taros Ranvok sensed this spark, and seemed to misread it.

He leaned closer as he asked, "Is Safreon truly well?"

Hemlock broke eye contact and took a step back: "Yes, he removed the dressing on the wound and it is all but healed."

If Taros Ranvok noted her disengagement from the more intimate vicinity of his person, his visage did not reveal a reaction. "It is well. My father, Pan Taros, wishes to meet with all of you when the fifteenth sands are exhausted." With that, he pointed to a mechanical device which was mounted above the entrance to the chamber, across the room.

The device consisted of two long pieces of wood intermeshed with gears and pulleys. Along the two pieces of wood, twenty hourglasses were suspended. The sands of some of the hourglasses had already been spent, while others were suspended on their sides, apparently not yet activated by the workings of the machines. Sand was falling in one, apparently the fifteenth.

Hemlock, understanding the function of the device, nodded her agreement: "We will be ready, will you escort us at that time?"

"I will return," noted Taros Ranvok as he bowed and left.

"He appears inflamed by you," observed Gwineval in a raspy voice behind her, which carried a note of humor.

"Was it that obvious?" asked Hemlock, turning to him with a look of playful consternation on her face.

"Rather, yes," he responded, holding some morsel in his scaled hand which he appeared to have just bitten into.

"Did they bring food?" asked Hemlock.

After taking another bite and discarding some bloodied bones into the corner, Gwineval responded: "No, food arrived of its own accord." He noted with a chortle, as he discarded a long wiry rat tail toward the direction of the bones.

Hemlock groaned in disgust, but was a little jealous, since she was hungry herself.

Safreon returned from his bath looking quite vigorous. Hemlock informed him of the impending audience.

A Tanna Varran woman brought some food to them soon after that and Hemlock and Safreon ate enthusiastically, while Gwineval ate a little meat, but little else.

Merit shuffled up to the group and observed their makeshift meal.

"Will I accompany you to the audience?" Merit asked.

Safreon glanced at him fondly as he devoured a large piece of animal meat.

"Yes Merit, I think that would be a good idea. You are a part of this tale and no doubt a source of some wonder among these Tanna Varrans," Safreon replied warmly.

"I will not burden them with my recent inner turmoil," Merit replied after a time, emitting a shrill whistle at the final word which echoed through the chamber, causing many of the Tanna Varrans to look at him.

Safreon seemed surprised by the incident. "Oh, ah, yes Merit, I think that would be wise. It would be difficult to explain the full gravity of your situation to our hosts."

##  Chapter Fifteen

It was the day after several extremely unusual events had taken place in the Tower. Falignus looked up from the large, semicircular onyx table before him as he sat in the meeting chamber of the Wizard Council. The Council was in session. The apparent insurrection of the wizard Gwineval was under discussion.

Falignus had appointed a new council member to stand in for Gwineval and to represent the Fifth Circle. He glanced at Kraven as he occupied his new seat. The man had a normal humanoid appearance, save for a pair of large bat wings that protruded from his back. He was sturdily built and dark complected; his features were handsome save for a prominent, crooked nose. He was known to be capable of flight and had been a useful ally of Falignus in the role of a spy to monitor Gwineval from within the Fifth Circle. His appointment rendered him useless as a Crimson Order operative from this point forward, but Falignus had promised the man the position should it ever become available. Now that it had happened, Falignus had followed through on that promise.

"Do we know where the magical cage transported them to in the Witch Crags?" Falignus asked.

"We have an idea, but we do not know precisely. We don't know if Gwineval had time to adjust the controls prior to departing. We do know the location it had last been set for, however: a location close to the Tanna Varran capital town," Colberth responded with an air that matched his role as the bookish leader of the Sixth Circle of magic, the catalogers of spells and potions. His delivery was detached and clinical.

Falignus thought, "Should I go myself and confront them?"

He had been wrestling with the question for many hours, but a cautious voice inside of him continued to reason against that course of action: "You know that Safreon and Hemlock possess a veiled power. What if they use that power, with the aid of Gwineval, to attempt to crush you? You wouldn't have time to mobilize a large escort force for this reconnaissance. It would have to be a smaller escort. It is not worth the risk."

Falignus believed that this was not the time to directly confront Gwineval and the other intruders to the Tower, especially given the threat of the mysterious power that his magic had revealed to him that they possessed. He felt that he had needed to learn more about the nature of that power. He concluded that he would send another wizard to find and speak with Gwineval. If possible, he planned to setup a scrying session in order to speak with Gwineval remotely from the relative safety of the Wizard Tower.

He reasoned that once the threat that Gwineval and his allies represented was clear to him, that he would strike–personally if necessary–with the full force of the Wizard Guild army behind him.

"What do we do then? Do we send out a patrol to search for him? What do we do when we find him?" Falignus asked the assembled council.

"I say that we blanket the area with patrols until we make contact and then we parlay in order to determine Gwineval's intentions," the wizard Jalis suggested.

Falignus turned to regard the portly wizard, who he regarded as self-centered, unprincipled, ambitious and foolhardy. Falignus registered some surprise at the worthiness of the suggestion, given his opinion of the source.

"Noted. Other opinions?"

"We must not show weakness. The Senate has no doubt heard some version of the incident by now. We must search Gwineval out and bring him back to the Tower for interrogation and ... I dare say, punishment," Malvert, the battle hardened leader of the First Circle combat wizards, stated.

"That is rash!" Miara exclaimed. Falignus turned toward the only female member of the council, who he considered an ally of Gwineval. "We must parlay with Gwineval when we find him, as Jalis suggests. We may not understand his purposes, and I suspect that he reacted in the only manner that he could, under circumstances that we do not understand."

"Perhaps. Anyone else?"

"Declare him a rogue Wizard and enemy of the City. Do not search him out in the Witch Crags. He will likely meet an appropriate fate there at the hands of the Witches or the Tanna Varran wild men. Do not inflame the uneasy truce we have with the Witches by sending a large force to search for Gwineval. When he returns to the City, as he surely will, kill him or abduct him and take him back to the Tower, along with his new friends," Arcos stated, leader of the Fourth circle of Magic. Falignus never liked the illusion magic that the Fourth Circle specialized in, considering it banal and lacking in honor since it invariably was used in deception. Still, Falignus had to concede that the magic had its uses from time to time.

"Kraven?" Falignus demanded.

"I would seek Gwineval out with a limited number of wizards and gauge his intentions. Once ascertained, I would act according to that information," Kraven stated reflectively.

"Well done," Falignus responded, nodding toward Kraven.

"I favor that approach also. As Arcos pointed out, we cannot risk inflaming tensions with the Witches. We are not yet fully prepared to destroy them. But we need to locate Gwineval and learn his intentions. I will send special agents with our normal Oberon harvesting teams. They will seek out Gwineval by searching for magical emanations and also by speaking with the Tanna Varran townsfolk in the area. If this approach is unsuccessful, we will reconsider some of the other suggested approaches. We will give this approach one week to succeed."

"Each of you will personally accompany one of the harvesting teams. We have enough of our new Titan Harvesters ready to protect most of you."

Falignus then gauged the reactions amongst the group. Malvert looked eager. Jalis looked guarded, as usual. Miara looked troubled. Falignus knew that she was probably fully aware that her assigned route would have the least likelihood of actually encountering Gwineval. Arcos looked flushed with pleasure–no doubt because some of his ideas had been adopted as part of the plan. Colberth looked appalled, for Falignus knew that he hated being removed from his studies. Kraven also looked eager, like Malvert, but not in a fawning or cocksure way like the latter Wizard had. Kraven was already exceeding Falignus' expectations; he was showing that he could be a valuable tool in his new role.

After the council meeting, Falignus retired to his chambers. He considered assuming a magical guise and entering the City to spend some time with one of his female consorts. But even the thought of that physical pleasure held no appeal for him in his current mood.

Falignus was pensive. These recent events had disquieted him. He had not foreseen the emergence of the girl and this freedom fighter from the Warrens. He had concluded that both wielded some hidden power that had resisted his attempts at divination.

He entered his chamber, which was large by the standards of the Tower, but relatively featureless. It was dominated by a large, canopied bed. Like many rooms in the Tower, great wooden bookshelves stood along the walls.

Falignus felt strongly that this girl–no, not a girl–a woman, must be descended from a powerful bloodline. She had only recently become a woman, but Falignus had seen that she was clearly confident in her growing abilities. She had entered the Wizard Tower, after all.

His sense of unease continuing, he approached a heavy oaken door, undid the bolts which secured it and dismissed the magical wards which had locked it.

He then opened it and stepped inside into his inner sanctum, and observed the personal effects which he had placed into the stark stone chamber. A row of moldering skulls sat on a shelf which had been worked into the wall. The sight of a series of animal cages greeted him as well, their various occupants having given the room an earthy odor.

Birds shrieked, monkeys called and jumped, and other animals awoke and stirred in the cages.

Beside the cages, a great alabaster alchemy table stood. Beyond that, a raised bathing basin and a sofa were visible.

A large window had been set into the smooth wall beside a bookcase, and overlooked the City below.

Falignus opened the window, and greedily breathed in the night air as he gazed down at the unordered sprawl of the Warrens below him. He hated the sight of that disorder, yet he valued it just the same, because it motivated him. His vision for the Warrens was one of prosperity, in the mold of the Elite District. He felt that it was only disorganization that fostered such a dichotomy between the classes in the City.

His plans were laid, and had been laid by Zaringer before him. He judged that those plans would come to fruition in his lifetime, if all went well. He also judged that if all went well, the concept of his "lifetime" would be one quite beyond normal human experience.

Still, he was uneasy. His prescient visions had led him to expect a hidden descendant of a powerful bloodline to have emerged, but had not suggested that the figure would be an overt enemy of the Wizard Guild. He also hadn't expected her to be aided by his principal enemy within the Guild.

Falignus felt a familiar feeling then; that he needed to know more.

In order to achieve the visions, Falignus needed to walk a dark path that Zaringer had shown him many years before, even though that path frightened him to his core. He was aware that he walked the path of the dead–or of the undead–in order to realize knowledge attained at the cost of life and soul. It was a great, dark power that Zaringer had taught him, and it seemed to Falignus to have eroded whatever force that connected one to the virtuous part of their being. It was the most simultaneously thrilling and terrible sensation that Falignus had ever known.

Yet the information that he had gained had been extremely valuable in enabling the realization of his ambitions; before him it had been equally valuable to Zaringer, and before Zaringer it had been valuable to a number of wizards who dared to practice the forbidden art. Each one of them had ultimately succumbed to the temptation of the prescient power, and it had eventually rendered them all into something other than human.

Falignus shuddered at the thought.

But Falignus had been identified by Zaringer as a member of a unique bloodline. That made him different, Falignus thought. If anyone could resist the corrupting power of the prescience, Falignus had felt that it had to be him.

He wore a look of grim determination on his face as he moved away from the window and toward the alchemy tools, which were in position on the alabaster table. He then distilled a tincture, and withdrew a monkey from one of the cages.

The creature was abnormally docile, yet Falignus stunned the creature with a blow to the head and then placed it in a bath of the tincture, which hissed and burned around the creature's body.

He then drew forth a blade, and with a practiced incision, drew the beating heart from the creature. Flinching only for a moment, he placed the still beating organ into his mouth, as blood flowed down his chin and over his garments.

The visions took him. The world became non–corporeal, manifesting in the context of a spiral of dimensions that he was able to perceive and to understand only when under the influence of the dark ritual.

He saw plans within plans and actions and reactions moving along hundreds of dimensions; the multiplicity of every person and space spread out before him like an infinite array of motion. He saw all potential timelines for the City, which were so vast in number that he had to look for patterns in their multitude in order to locate items of interest. Some things were clouded to him, as they always were (for reasons that he did not understand).

Still, he perceived what he sought after. He saw who Hemlock was, who she had become and who she might further become. He then saw Gwineval, and some of his actions and sympathies. He was able to see Safreon fully for the first time, having never noted previously the many subtle dimensions of power that were exercised by this individual. He saw a Griffin in possession of something: something that was hidden from his sight. This vision frightened him. The location of the Griffin was vague and hard to pin down. Falignus could see that it had some crucial part to play in the fate of the City, yet he was not able to determine the what, how or when of that part.

He saw a Witch enraged and plotting revenge against the Tanna Varrans. He also sensed that the Tanna Varrans were contemplating war, after dreaming of peace for so many years.

The visions started to fade. He once again perceived the table and the now sizzling and blackened corpse of the monkey. He glanced down at his hand and saw bones surrounded by ghostly flesh. Stricken by terror at the sight, he closed his eyes hard and then opened them again. His hand looked normal again, but was wracked by an excruciating pain. As the pain in his hand lessened, he became conscious of his body, and a powerful ache that throbbed within it.

Falignus felt somewhat relieved because he had accomplished his goal. He now knew where Gwineval and Hemlock were. He also now understood who Safreon was and how he had engaged and befriended Gwineval. He had also learned that the Witches were now distracted with a possible war with the Tanna Varran tribes.

Still, the clouded vision of the Griffin renewed his feeling of unease. It showed him that parts of his plans were still shrouded in uncertainty.

...

The Chamber of the King was sizable, and laid out in an odd, tiered arrangement. There was a middle level, where Hemlock, Safreon, Gwineval and Merit now stood, flanked by many chairs, which were empty. To their upper left was a higher level, the floor of which was sloped and lined with additional seats. To their right was a lower level, which was an open floor. The hall was decorated with ornate carved scrollwork and painted in regal but muted hues of gold and red. The woodwork contained many images of snakelike dragons and men, and the symbol of the open hand seemed to be an overarching theme. Hanging lanterns adorned the ceiling at odd intervals, and wall sconces released a pungent but pleasant smelling incense odor into the chamber. Directly in front of them was the throne of the King of the Tanna Varrans. Taros Ranvok had confirmed that he was the King of all of their towns, of which Tor Varnos was the largest. Seated in the intermediate space, at the front of the chairs on the middle tier, closest to the throne, were two score Tanna Varran elders.

The King was dressed in more subdued colors than he had been at the welcoming ceremony they had witnessed earlier that day. He now wore a simple brown robe, with a black sash about the waist. The elders were all dressed in gray robes with black sashes.

All eyes turned toward the four Outlanders who were joined by Taros Ranvok.

"I am Pan Taros, King of the Tanna Varran people in exile. Welcome to Tor Varnos – the principal settlement of our people."

Safreon bowed in response and the other three followed his lead with Merit even managing a shallow bow.

"You are a curious group: a man, a young woman, a Wizard beast and an iron gnome. This group might almost be comical were the circumstances of your visit not so grave."

"Taros Ranvok, my son, has recounted to me the events that led you here. He has described how you apparently unleashed the Mathi in ignorance and then sought to make amends for that act by slaying the beast. Fear not, for my Son has owned up to his part in your actions."

Hemlock noted that Taros Ranvok tensed visibly at that remark. The Elders murmured amongst themselves and their faces wore looks of disappointment.

The King cleared his throat."I do not know if you know of our ways, Outlanders. We have been a violent people throughout our history. Our people made war against an ancient Empire when they sought to walk the path of peace. All of the other free people of that realm rose up against us and we were defeated by them. We fled to a distant part of the Empire where we then fell under attack from the Witches. Then the great separation came and our new homeland was shorn from the Empire and bound to the City. We feel that this was a curse brought down on us as a result of our former malice. I have since led a new movement of pacifism within our people. Guided by these new principles, we have been able to make peace with the Witches. Though this land is cursed, we have learned to follow a brighter path. We now work for the redemption of all beings. We have learned to practice the art of compassion, even for our enemies.

"Our young, however, seem to question the merit of our new values. Taros Ranvok is not unique in his views that the old ways were not evil and that we should fight our enemies rather than engage them in dialogue and negotiate peace with them."

"I have heard of your City and the people there. They prey upon each other like animals. The rich live on the backs of the poor, who work at the point of a sword. The wizards have created and enforce this system. Since you are from the City, I am not surprised at the actions you took against the Mathi. I am surprised that you are here, however. I would like to hear your direct account of the reasons for this."

Safreon took a step forward and began to speak. "We are from the City and much of what you say is true. We are no strangers to violence, but we only resort to it when there is no effective alternative. I personally strive to promote liberty and justice in the City, and to a greater or lesser extent, all of my companions are walking that same path. We came to these lands quite unexpectedly, having escaped under duress from the City and a conflict with the wizards. You will note that my companion, Gwineval, is a Wizard himself. He helped us to escape them, for we have shown him that an alternative exists to their unquestioned power.

"That is the tale of our arrival to these lands. We were teleported here in a machine of the wizards, now broken beyond repair. Once we took stock of our situation, we thought to appeal to the generosity of your people for shelter and sustenance. We climbed a hilltop to search for a town and inadvertently roused the creature which you call 'Mathi.' We fled from its attack, unable to effectively combat it with our magic or swords. We sought refuge in a cave where we interrupted a ritual which we were quite unfamiliar with. Your warrior, Bradrun, sacrificed himself despite our attempts to prevent his action.

"We then met with your patrol and learned of the apparent fate of Bradrun's soul. Fearing and loathing that consequence, and encouraged in some measure by your people, we decided to track and attack the creature again, with the aid of your magic."

As Safreon spoke, Hemlock noticed that the counselors of the King seemed to be drawn in by his words, and seemed to pay greater attention as he proceeded.

"We succeeded in slaying the Mathi and then followed your people here, becoming aware in greater and greater measure of the conflict between our actions and your doctrine. We do not desire to become involved in your internal disagreements, and regret any part we may have played in causing them. We place ourselves at your mercy and ask for shelter for a few days before we leave you to return to the City."

When Safreon finished speaking, the chamber was silent for several minutes. None seemed inclined to speak before the King passed judgment.

Finally, the King impassively rose from his throne to speak. Outside, a storm was rolling through the valley. A thunderclap struck and the stern visage of the King was cast in a sudden, stark relief. The queerness of the angles of the room again struck Hemlock, as the long shadows of dusk were temporarily lifted and then snapped back into place with an unearthly suddenness.

"We will meditate on what has been said. Then a verdict will be reached."

Great pairs of colorful wooden drums were rolled into the chamber on wheels, and set around the outside of the room. More incense burners were lit, filling the chamber with even stronger aromas. The King's advisors each manned a drum and they began to pound the drums in unison, marking out an even beat of alternating pitch.

The King's eyes went blank as he stared past and through the Outlanders, as did those of his advisors, who were able to drum mechanically while appearing to be in a trance-like state.

As the drums sounded forcefully and without pause, Hemlock's head began to swim. The sound of the drums seemed to be congruent with the visual angles of the room and with those of the tower itself. She sensed that the drumming was having a magical interaction with the architecture in some strange fashion. The overall pattern that was traced out was similar to a rune of clarity, which she had used herself many times since hearing it used so frequently in Wizard Guild magic. The wizards' version was more coercive in nature, however, while the Tanna Varran version was comparatively benevolent. She tried to memorize the pattern, wishing to use it for her own purposes, but it was too complex for her to commit to memory.

After what seemed an interminable length of time to the Outlanders, the drumming ceased in unison. Curiously, none of the strangers had perceived any cue to stop, but the precision of the halting had been exact.

Slowly and solemnly, the King and his advisors returned to their seats. Once all were comfortable, the King rose again and spoke:

"Just like the storm overhead, a great storm is passing over the hearts of my people. We are turning away from the path of peace toward that of war. I sense now that you may play a greater part in this than I had thought. I have dreamed of a great Wolf who interrupts my meditations. I then saw my people, upon seeing the Wolf, pause in confusion and then pick up their spears. I feared that this Wolf was Her who we do not speak of, yet I see now that the Wolf may represent you four, for you seem to have caused my people to reach for their spears."

"I am not blaming you for recent events, but it is clear that your arrival is a grave omen for our people. You must leave as soon as you can, before greater events are set in motion. I am not so callous, however, that I would cast you out into the spectral night. No, I must allow you to rest here tonight. At dawn, you will leave. You should head east, back toward the City. We will show you caves where you can safely rest along the way."

Hemlock saw Safreon glance at Gwineval with a look of concern on his face. Gwineval appeared ready to speak, but Safreon shook his head negatively and Gwineval acted in accordance with this cue and did not speak.

Taros Ranvok looked rueful as his eyes met Hemlock's. She looked away somewhat uncomfortably, as he gestured for the four to follow him out of the chamber.

##  Chapter Sixteen

The four wanderers returned to the communal living chamber, escorted by Taros Ranvok. The young Tanna Varran told them that Pan Taros was planning to address the Townsfolk to describe the newcomers to them and explain his decision regarding them. Taros Ranvok's manner was solemn, and Hemlock could tell that he sought to make eye contact with her, but she avoided it.

Taros Ranvok soon left the chamber. Many of the Tanna Varran townsfolk in the room were whispering amongst themselves and looking at the four outlanders. Their looks were neutral, seeming neither supportive nor angry. Hemlock wondered if this would still be the case after Pan Taros addressed them.

Eventually, most of the Tanna Varrans left the hall to attend the address. Only a pair of guards remained at the door.

Gwineval took his leave of the rest of the group to take a swim in the adjacent bath. Hemlock sat down beside Safreon while Merit looked out the nearby window at the sky, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

"Safreon, what will we do when we get back to the City?"

"I have been thinking about that," he responded. "I think that the wizards have addicted the entire City to Witch Crag magic. But now we've seen where that magic comes from, and I, for one, have no desire to partake of it any longer."

Hemlock nodded her agreement. "It's disgusting. But there are people like my sister who depend on it," she added.

"That's an unfortunate truth. We can't just stop using magic. Some amount of magic is innate to the City, but the wizards have regulated all spell casting and have required people to use their potions. We have to lead the fight against that regulation and in support of the restoration of natural magic."

Hemlock considered that for a time and then responded, "So we continue to fight the wizards."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. We lack the strength to confront the wizards directly. We have to try to aid Gwineval in returning to the Wizard Guild and retaining his position. The only way I can see to do that is to let him go back to them with information about my Wand. This information will make me even more of a marked man. It will probably affect you as well. It will be an extremely dangerous time for us both, Hemlock."

"I don't fear the wizards," she responded. Seeing Safreon's dark look in response, she added, "I respect their power, now more than ever. But I do not fear them."

Her statement seemed to placate Safreon somewhat. "Even if we manage to get Gwineval accepted back into the Wizard Guild, he will be under suspicion by Falignus. He will be an ally, but we still need more power in order to oppose Falignus. We will have to devise new ways to fight him. We may have to take the fight to the Elites as well. They are so addicted to Wizard magic that they will never willingly give it up. They will support the Wizard Guild unless..."

Safreon stopped speaking as he noticed Gwineval returning to their vicinity. Safreon began to speak about Taros Ranvok, his father Pan Taros, and the meeting which was apparently about to take place.

Hemlock rose and walked to the window, thinking to speak to Merit. But Merit, sensing her approach, moved off into a corner and sat alone.

Hemlock gave a slight shrug in Merit's direction and then gazed out the window herself.

She mused about how her life had changed in the past several days. She thought about her sister, who now seemed a world away in the Warrens, even though it could be reached in only a few days on foot.

Hemlock quietly cursed the day that her sister had joined her on her journey to the City. But then she thought of her step-father and that reaffirmed her opinion that her sister was better off in the City, even considering the physical maladies which she suffered from here. Hemlock took comfort in the fact that at least her sister's spiritual life was pure in the City. That was a thought Hemlock cherished.

As Hemlock gazed out over the Tanna Varran town, deep in her musings, she noticed a large building nearby, which was lit up with bright lanterns and torches. Most of the townspeople were filing through the doorway. This was, no doubt, the meeting hall where the King was about to deliver news of their group.

Something caught her eye on the pitched roof of a building slightly above and adjacent to the larger meeting building. Hemlock perceived a ghostly figure crawling over the roof toward the meeting hall. It moved like an animal but it had a human appearance. Hemlock realized that it was the radiantly beautiful form of a woman. Hemlock was frozen for a moment as she watched the figure leap and soar across the divide between the rooftops. She was awed by the beauty of the creature, which seemed to exceed the measure of anything beautiful that she had previously experienced. She felt small and belittled by that beauty, yet she could not look away. The animalistic movements of the spirit also registered in Hemlock's mind, providing a subtle undercurrent of loathing to the awe she felt as she beheld the comely form.

Stopping beside a high window on an upper section of the two story meeting hall, the insubstantial woman froze. As Hemlock watched, she began to fade; her beautiful flowing hair morphed into a fine mist. Hemlock found herself struggling to focus on it. The entire figure dissolved into mist, still casting a slight unearthly glow, and then passed through the closed window and faded from view.

Hemlock soon snapped out of whatever form of rapture had held her while she beheld the figure.

"Safreon!" she cried.

"What? What's wrong?" asked Safreon, who had been sitting nearby speaking with Gwineval and Merit.

"I don't know, but I just saw something. It was the ghostly figure of a beautiful woman. It seemed to pass into the hall where Pan Taros is addressing the townspeople. It was like nothing I've ever seen before; beautiful, but terrible. So terrible..."

Safreon glanced at Gwineval and Merit, who had both risen to comfort Hemlock. He then directed his attention across the room toward the two guards which had been left at the door of the chamber.

"I think we need to alert the Tanna Varrans. Your description sounds like the Witch that haunts these hills and valleys: the Master of that Mathi creature that we dispatched," replied Safreon.

Gwineval nodded, while Hemlock was still trying to shake off the effects of her experience; though she was aware of her surroundings, she did not react to them.

Hemlock watched, detached, as Safreon jogged across the hall, trying to balance the urgency of his message with a desire to avoid trampling the bedrolls of the absent townspeople.

Soon, he returned with a Tanna Varran guard, who looked extremely grave. Hemlock was starting to feel a little better as Safreon spoke to her.

"Hemlock, please repeat to this man what you told me about the figure you saw enter the meeting hall."

"It was the ghostly figure of a beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman... person... that I have ever seen. She moved like a beast, but I still could not take my eyes off of her. She leapt from roof to roof and then dissipated into a mist which flowed into the meeting hall."

Hemlock watched the color leave the face of the Tanna Varran guard. He paused for only a moment before crying out, "Quickly! We must alert Pan Taros and Tored! The Witch herself may be in that hall!"

The guard made to grab Hemlock, but she easily avoided his grasp and gestured for him to lead them. The guard complied and set off in a swift run, looking back to make sure the rest followed. The others followed quickly behind, with Merit doing his best to keep up.

They left the hall and emerged onto the wooden causeways of the town, which creaked under the weight of their footfalls. They ran as quickly as possible in the dark evening, making their way along walkways and stairs to the meeting hall, which was not too far from their quarters.

As they ran, Hemlock looked at the rafters and roofs of the buildings around them, their queer angles seeming to accentuate the threat of seeing another ghostly figure. But she saw nothing but the characteristic stark angles of the Tanna Varran construction techniques.

After a few minutes, they arrived at the hall.

Hemlock glanced back for Merit, but she did not see him. The Tanna Varran guard would accept no delay as he ushered them into the hall, through broad double doors.

They could see the assembled throng and feel the warmth within the hall.

Hemlock saw Pan Taros speaking on a raised stage to the townspeople below. The King seemed to notice the motion of their group moving in the crowd and paused his melodic speech.

Undaunted, the Tanna Varran guard took them to a stairway, beside which two warriors stood. The warriors would not let the group pass.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" asked Pan Taros from the stage above, commandingly, and pointing in their direction.

All eyes in the hall turned toward the group.

The guard who had led them began to speak haltingly, but Safreon put a hand on his shoulder and the guard was silent. Safreon began to speak and his voice rang out clearly over crowd.

"Pan Taros, we regret the intrusion, but my companion, Hemlock, saw the ghostly figure of a beautiful woman crawling on the rooftops and entering this hall not moments ago!"

In response to this, a low murmur of alarm rose in the crowd.

Hemlock noticed that Tored and Taros Ranvok, who had been seated in the shadows behind the podium above, bolted up out of their seats and arrived immediately at the King's side. There was a quick consultation and then Pan Taros shrugged them off and addressed the crowd.

"Silence! Silence!" he cried.

Slowly the murmur of the crowd trailed off and there was silence.

"Do not fear. We will determine what has happened and what, if anything, must be done," stated the King reassuringly.

Pan Taros pointed down to Hemlock.

"Now tell us what you have seen, and omit no detail," he commanded.

Hemlock related her experience carefully, but quickly.

Pan Taros seemed to shrink in stature for a moment as he heard Hemlock's words, but then he rose straight again. Looking back at Tored, he turned back to face the crowd, which had again broken out into a charged murmuring.

"Silence!" cried the King again.

This time the hall was quickly silenced. Hemlock noticed that many in the crowd seemed to look at their companions with some alacrity.

"It seems that we must return to the old ways in order to determine whether the words of this outlander are true. We all know the legend of the Witch. Seal the hall!" commanded the King.

Warriors quickly moved to block the double doors through which the group had entered.

"All women, please open your mouths and present your tongues, according to the old ways," commanded the King gravely.

Hemlock looked around, confused, as the women in the room proceeded to do just that. Men quickly passed from woman to woman inspecting their mouths. It all seemed quite odd to Hemlock and her friends.

The warrior who had escorted them to the hall stepped forcefully in front of Hemlock.

"You must open your mouth. It is said that the Witch can possess women. When she does so, she is undetectable, save for her forked tongue. You must show me your tongue," instructed the Guard.

Hemlock glanced to Safreon, shrugged her shoulders, and then opened her mouth.

The Guard was quickly satisfied and moved to inspect another.

Hemlock was about to comment on the absurdity of what she had just done, when a woman, in the middle of the crowd, surged into the air, writhing violently.

"NO! It cannot be!" cried Pan Taros, the King, losing his composure.

A smartly dressed woman levitated in agony over the crowd.

"The Witch!" cried many voices.

"The King's sister, Marta!" cried others.

"I AM LIGHTNING!" boomed out a voice from the levitating figure so loudly that Hemlock doubted that any noise in the world could have drowned it out.

As those words were heard, two incredible things happened simultaneously: a searing bolt of energy thundered from the writhing body of the woman toward the ceiling–and her body, a frail vessel unable to remain intact under that level of force, tore apart into many pieces, showering blood, flesh, guts and smoldering fragments of her garments all over the crowd below.

Hemlock put a hand to her sabre, but it was all over so quickly as to render the action moot. She looked up to the ceiling of the chamber and there was a hole burnt into it from the passing of the strange lightning. She could see the stars overhead, through the hole.

Looking back to the stage above, she saw that the King, Pan Taros, had fallen into an inconsolable state. He was being dragged into the shadowy wings of the upper chamber by Tored. Taros Ranvok, tears streaming down his face, stood as if transfixed by the spectacle of what had just happened and the reaction of the crowd below, which was just starting to break its silence with screams and cries.

His eyes happened to meet Hemlock's. Many things passed between them as their eyes met–even over the intervening distance. His affection for her was naked in that glance, but the sympathy in her eyes was not intermingled with an amorous quality, and he clearly perceived that. His eyes became even sadder, if that was possible, but his expression changed to one of acceptance and he nodded to Hemlock kindly. She felt like her heart might burst from her chest with guilt.

...

Hemlock and Safreon sat together in the clock tower of a church located in the center of the Warrens. Hemlock, who was just newly coming into her womanly figure, looked around her at the now non-working clock, and the bell, which had several long cracks in it and no longer rung true. The church was still used, but no longer enjoyed a large or passionate group of followers and supporters.

Hemlock scanned the streets below, looking for crime or other issues which would warrant a response from her and Safreon. It was early evening, when most acts of mischief–or worse–tended to occur.

Hemlock moved over a few rafters to peer from the eastern face of the tower. In the distance loomed the Wizard Tower, an imposing looking edifice rising over the Warrens. It featured a number of large windows that were flat at the bottom and curved to a peak at the top. It was a wide tower; tall, but not delicate. It covered a large area at the center of the City.

"Safreon, did you ever wonder why the Wizard Tower is at the center of the City along with the Senate building?" she asked.

Safreon took a moment to respond as he puffed on a pipe, then dumped the ash over the side of an opening in the wall of the tower. He watched the ashes flutter to the street below.

"I've studied the history of the City, and before the reign of the Imperator, I believe that the Wizard Tower may have been the first building in the City, predating the Wizard Guild," he stated.

"Really? The Guild didn't build the Tower?" Hemlock asked, surprised.

"No, I don't think that they did. Surely they added to it by changing the interior, perhaps adding the protections and wards. From what I can put together, and it's difficult, because the Imperator tried to destroy all traces of the written history of the City prior to his reign, there was a reclusive Wizard of great power who originally built the Tower. Some believe that he created the special shifting properties of the land upon which he built it. Others believe that he identified the unique properties of the land and managed to migrate here and found the City." Safreon packed his pipe with more tobacco.

Hemlock noticed a group of First Circle wizards that were moving drunkenly through the Warrens. Hemlock pointed them out to Safreon. She thought that it had been unusual for them to emerge from the Tower in plain sight, as she had seen them do an hour earlier; but as the martial arm of the wizards, she figured that they must be allowed out to partake of certain indulgences which the other wizards did not. After inspecting them for a time, and judging their actions to be relatively benign, Hemlock returned her attention to her conversation with Safreon.

"Safreon, do you think the City is a good place or an evil place?" she asked.

"Both, I would say," he responded lightly.

"Well, you must be interested in this topic considering that you devote so much time to trying to combat evil."

"I have given it some passing thought," he mused mysteriously.

"Safreon...come on," Hemlock cooed in response.

Putting his pipe down, Safreon turned to her.

"We all have good and evil within us. Therefore, the City, and in fact all places that I have experienced, are both good and evil, in direct measure to the people that exist there. Good and evil are opposites; in fact they are measured against one another. Good actions often require evil actions in order to be deemed good by comparison. If there was only good, then good ... well it wouldn't really be good anymore–it would just ... be."

Hemlock was silent as she thought about his words.

Safreon picked up his pipe and puffed theatrically. "That being said, there are a lot of harmful actions in the City. It's easy to despair and think that we live in an evil place. But there is much good here that goes unnoticed: the doting mother who struggles to feed her children and thinks only of them and not of herself, the Priest who carries on in this rundown Church even though he is little more than a pauper himself, yourself, trying to make the Warrens safer for your sister and others. These are all people who commit acts of compassion and self-sacrifice that stand in contrast to the evil deeds that often occur here."

"But what does it matter if there are good acts if the evil is stronger; if there are more acts of evil than there are good?" Hemlock countered.

"Listen, I think that everyone is on a spiritual journey, whether they believe that or not. The evil is harmful because it can distract people from a virtuous path. But so-called goodness can be just as dangerous. I've lived in places in times of plenty, before I came to the City. So-called good places are often just as fertile a breeding ground for lack of virtue as evil places. People become lazy, they become greedy, and they become insensitive to others when they do not need thing,s but simply want them. They become slaves of their desires."

Hemlock grunted noncommittally.

"You're entitled to be skeptical – but I have seen this with my own eyes. Still, the actions that you and I take every day demonstrate that our mission is to attempt to reduce the harmful evil in the Warrens. Sometimes we commit violence and are forced to do terrible things. It is akin to a doctor who must remove a diseased limb. It is impossible to contain the damage without causing some harm to the body. But the hope is that the overall result will be positive. We try to make peace with our swords. My hope is that those who come after us will be able to make peace with their words."

Hemlock nodded in agreement.

"We should change the subject," he joked, "otherwise this clock tower may collapse under the weight of this conversation."

Hemlock laughed girlishly, "Fine... we wouldn't want that to happen!"

##  Chapter Seventeen

The Tanna Varran town was in a state of alert and the Outlanders were returned to their hall, still under guard.

Hemlock studied the people as she passed among them, conscious of being watched and studied in turn by the townspeople. Some people looked darkly toward her, as if they were blaming her for the recent catastrophic events. Others were impassive, others appeared curious, and a few even appeared supportive. Hemlock was struck, however, by the courage that she saw in almost every eye. She felt that this was a people used to adversity, and that they were determined to persevere through any danger.

As she approached their bedrolls, Hemlock noticed that Merit had rejoined them. She hung back from the group as he approached.

"Merit, what happened to you after we lost you on the way to the meeting hall?" she asked.

"I eventually found my way there. I arrived just as that woman was...killed," replied Merit in his characteristic way.

"I'm sorry that we left you behind, Merit. We were in such a hurry!"

"I do what I can to keep up, Miss Hemlock, and I accept that I can't do everything like...like normal people can. But I don't despair over it. I didn't even think about it for many, many years."

"That's good, Merit."

"As I returned here from the Hall, a crowd of Tanna Varrans moved around me. I heard them talking about us and the Witch. They think that we are going to help them against the Witch. They feel that the Witch will attack with her army of ghosts and demons. They think that the King has grown soft," Merit explained.

Hemlock was surprised at the relevance of this observation. She had considered Merit incapable of making a real contribution to their cause up until that moment.

"Thank you, Merit. I will mention this to Safreon."

Merit bowed and walked off toward the corner where he had sat in the hours since their arrival, lost in his thoughts.

Safreon and Gwineval were engaged in conversation nearby and Hemlock joined them.

"Merit has heard the townsfolk saying that the Witch will attack and that they expect we will help them fight her. They are also saying that their King has grown soft in the face of the Witch's threat."

"An astute observation. We'll have to see what happens. Their opinions hold no sway if the will of Pan Taros is enforced tomorrow. We have to plan accordingly until we have a reason to expect some other outcome," responded Safreon.

"Tored and Taros Ranvok agree with the townsfolk, that much is clear," stated Gwineval.

"Perhaps, but would they defy Pan Taros in order to act upon their beliefs?" asked Safreon.

"I think that Tored probably wanted some open conflict with the Witch in order to trigger military preparations. He has what he wants now. I've seen his type before. He is a warrior first and a statesmen second. I think that he recognizes that some period of preparation is preferable to open conflict for now."

"You realize that if the Tanna Varrans are destroyed, the Witch and her ilk may become more dangerous to the City. They will gain control of the Valleys and have access to more Oberon," replied Safreon.

Gwineval looked around them at the nearby Tanna Varrans, making certain that they were not being overheard. "The Wizard Guild plans to deal with the Witches soon. Falignus has stated as much. We...they seem to be waiting for some breakthrough in the research of the Seventh Circle. Falignus is very secretive regarding exactly what the research is. I'm not sure how he will react if the Witches gain full control of the Witch Crags by eliminating the Tanna Varrans. After seeing this Witch in person, I am more concerned about the threat that she may pose. She has formidable powers."

Hemlock interrupted. "Are there more Witches? Are there more Tanna Varran towns?"

"Yes and yes," stated Safreon. "Pan Taros reigns over this, the largest of their Towns, Tor Varnos. Similarly, I understand from Tored that this Witch is the most powerful of a handful of Witches in the Witch Crags. The Tanna Varran towns do cooperate, but fortunately the Witches are too fearful of treachery within their ranks to cooperate in any meaningful way."

"Great, more Witches to deal with, too? This land is just as dangerous as the City. I hope the wizards and the Witches go to war and kill each other. How about that for a solution?" said Hemlock, shaking her head.

"What do you suppose would happen to the City in such a conflict?" pointed out Safreon.

Hemlock only shrugged in response. Safreon and Gwineval continued to talk as Hemlock decided to retire to her bedroll for some needed rest.

Some hours later, she was still trying to relax and still reviewing the events of the night in her head. It was not a night that she would soon forget.

She saw Safreon, who she thought had been asleep, bolt up in his bedroll. He looked around abstractly, trying to focus on something.

Hemlock thought to ask him if he was ok, but the look of concentration on his face held her back.

After a few moments, Hemlock noticed that his mouth moved very slightly–as if he was talking to himself.

Then his eyes popped open, and he met eyes with Hemlock. He quickly looked around and noted Merit sitting nearby with his back turned and the absence of Gwineval (who had departed for another of his frequent baths).

"The Griffin, Penelope, has found us. She is nearby, but the Tanna Varrans are wary of her and have flown patrols to intercept her approach. She cannot reach the town without being attacked," he told her.

Hemlock considered this and then replied "What will you do?"

Safreon's brow furrowed. "My desire is to rendezvous with her immediately, but I think our hosts would not take kindly to another unusual circumstance this night. Since we are bound to depart in the morning, we will wait until we put some distance between us and this town. Then I will contact her with my mind. I must show you how to do this. I have a potion that I use. I'll show you tomorrow."

Hemlock nodded in affirmation. Safreon lay down again and was snoring loudly mere seconds later. Hemlock admired his ability to sleep at will.

Gwineval soon returned from his bath.

"So, do you think that the Witch will make war on these people?" he asked Hemlock as he dried himself.  
Hemlock always felt uncomfortable when he was even partially disrobed. His scales and musky scent disturbed her.

"Safreon seems to think so," she replied, nodding toward the snoring bulk of the vigilante alchemist and warrior.

"He does have a knack for predicting the future. For instance, he seems to have been very confident that he would pry me away from the Wizard Guild–and look at me now."

Hemlock was surprised at Gwineval's candor. He had never spoken to her like this before.

"But you'll go back. That's his intention."

"Oh he hopes it will be so, but whether he believes it will come to pass is another matter. I don't know how much you know of the politics of the Wizard Guild, but I was not in favor even before this incident. It will be hard for me to explain my actions to Falignus."

Hemlock felt a now familiar surge of excitement at the mention of that name. She marveled at how the mere mention of this man's name could have such an effect on her. She had only seen him twice, once during battle. Still, something about him had made an impression on her. She recalled his face in that strange low gravity room in the Tower. She felt drawn to him, and really wasn't sure why. It was a loss of control that she found thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

"So will we be responsible for the destruction of these people at the hands of this Witch?" asked Gwineval.

"Taros Ranvok and Tored don't seem to fear her," replied Hemlock, troubled at the thought of Gwineval's words.

"Yes, they are brave, but you saw her magic. I am a member of the Wizard Council and I am not sure I could have faced her. She would be a fearsome opponent at the head of an army of creatures such as those we faced recently."

"But Pan Taros demands that we leave the town. We can't help them unless he relents."

"True enough. But maybe he will change his mind after tonight. He has lost family and seemed quite affected."

"Do you think Safreon hopes as much?"

"Perhaps. He will no doubt offer to help them if they seem open to it. I half hope that it does not happen, for things are complicated enough as it stands. But I have to admit to feeling some sense of responsibility for this situation, despite my best efforts not to."

"Yes, I suppose that I do, too. I'll speak with Safreon about it."

"Oh, you probably don't need to. One thing I've learned about Safreon is that when he is involved, events seem to unfold according to his designs. You might as well relax and let events take you where they may."

"I've never felt that way about him," responded Hemlock.

Gwineval smiled sardonically in his unique way, and nodded. "Maybe it's just I who am the pawn in his designs, then."

Hemlock did not know how to respond to him, so she simply shrugged and looked away.

...

The night passed fitfully for Hemlock.

At dawn, she heard a group of Tanna Varrans enter the chamber through the far door. Turning, she noted Taros Ranvok approaching, flanked by two warriors. All of the outlanders rose to greet them.

"I trust the morning finds you well," asked Taros Ranvok formally.

"As well as possible. Are we to leave the town now?" responded Safreon.

"Not yet. Some minutes ago, a delegation of wizards arrived from the City."

Hemlock, Safreon and Gwineval all looked at one another in alarm. Safreon gestured for calm. "I understand. What has come of their visit?" he asked.

"I met with them and they asked about your presence. Deception is not in our nature. I apologize if you consider my candor with them inopportune," responded Taros Ranvok.

"Inopportune!? Is that the best explanation that you can offer for condemning us to death?" hissed Gwineval angrily.

"Gwineval, please!" answered Safreon.

"The Wizard, one Malvert," continued Taros Ranvok ,"demanded that we transfer you into their custody."

Gwineval furrowed his eyes and looked away in disgust.

"We declined, for it was clear that his intent was hostile toward you. I told him that while you have been ordered to leave, that it will be as free people and not under their control. He became quite agitated at this remark. After conferring with his party, he asked that I tell Gwineval that the Head of the wizards, Falignus, would like to speak with him."

"He means to communicate with me over a scrying session," Gwineval said to no one in particular.

Safreon nodded, but turned back to Taros Ranvok. "Taros Ranvok, I thank you and your people for protecting us. I like to think that we have developed some friendship during these days we've spent together. You have served us well with your actions and we will not forget it."

Taros Ranvok nodded in response.

The outlanders were then led back to the ornate chamber of the King, where they had first had their audience with Pan Taros. When they arrived, they immediately saw the distinctively robed and tattooed wizards from the City standing at a respectful distance from the throne. The throne itself stood empty, although Tored stood behind it, clearly glaring at Malvert, the scarred, grizzled leader of the First Circle of wizards.

Besides two score of additional Tanna Varran guards, the room was otherwise unoccupied.

Taros Ranvok bid Safreon, Hemlock, Gwineval and Merit to stand some distance from Malvert, in front of the throne. Taros Ranvok did not take the throne, but stood in front of it authoritatively.

Gwineval and Malvert locked eyes. Hemlock got the sense that they were openly taking the measure of one another as potential foes. Hemlock thought that Malvert looked far more menacing than Gwineval, with his muscled build, arcane tattooing and bald, scarred features. But she had fought against Gwineval and knew that his power was considerable. She wondered whether Malvert realized just how formidable Gwineval really was in hand to hand combat.

Tored caught her eye. He looked like a beast ready to pounce on Malvert. Malvert ignored Tored, but the other two battle wizards with him kept a wary eye on the Tanna Varran. The two leaders looked like they were cut from the same violent cloth: men of few words who preferred the arts of war to those of diplomacy.

Taros Ranvok broke the uneasy silence: "Malvert of the Wizard Guild, here are Gwineval and his companions. He has agreed to parlay with you."

Malvert turned to each one of them in turn, addressing them in a deep and raspy voice. "Gwineval, Safreon, Hemlock, and..." He trailed off as he took note of Merit for the first time.

"Merit, formerly number four maintenance slave," responded Merit, stressing that last word.

Malvert looked nonplussed as he returned his attention to Gwineval. "I have spoken with these Tanna Varrans. They will not release you into our custody so that we can return you to the Tower. Please convince them that it is in your best interest for you and your companions to leave with us."

He followed this up with a forceful stare at Gwineval.

Gwineval did not delay in responding. "I will do absolutely no such thing."

"So it's true, then? You have gone renegade?"

"I'll discuss that with your master when the time comes. We will return to the City on our own terms. At that time, I will rejoin the Wizard Guild and explain my actions."

"Unacceptable. I have my orders; you must return with us," insisted Malvert, the veins in his forehead beginning to bulge.

"Your orders are inconsequential to me," replied Gwineval flatly.

Malvert took a step toward Gwineval in anger.

"Take one more step and you die," Tored's voice rang out across the chamber.

Malvert locked eyes with Tored. The two men seemed engaged in a battle of wills, as if they were mentally hacking each other to pieces with broadswords.

Taros Ranvok stepped between them. "This is not a place of battle. Please, is there anything else to discuss here?" he asked.

Malvert exhaled in resignation, and then replied, "The leader of the wizards, Falignus, wished to scry with Gwineval in the event negotiations broke down."

"Yes, let us stop wasting time and get down to it," Gwineval replied acidly.

"We will need a pool of water," stated Malvert.

"Our cistern should do well. It is located on the lower levels. I will show you," replied Taros Ranvok.

Hemlock followed as everyone in the room filed out. Tored and Malvert seemed to have settled into an uneasy coexistence for the time being, as the group wound through the populous pathways of the raised town.

The group arrived in front of a small building in an out of the way part of the platform that supported the level they stood on. Hemlock noticed a lot of mercantile activity.

Taros Ranvok opened the door and bid Gwineval and Malvert entry.

"I will stand guard so that they do not foul the cistern," said Tored, stepping forward.

"Impossible, this is a private matter," responded Malvert darkly, his facial scars coiling as if preparing to unleash a battle cry.

"I will watch Malvert as he prepares the scry. Once that is done, he will join you out here. Your water will not be harmed," Gwineval assured the men.

Taros Ranvok indicated his satisfaction with Gwineval's assurance and Gwineval led Malvert into the building, closing the door behind them.

...

Gwineval was nervous as he entered the building. It consisted of a single open room, lit dimly by sunlight filtering through openings above the walls around the perimeter of the ceiling. There was a large brass cistern in the center of the room. Several gutters entered the building from various angles and fed into the cistern, the top of which was about shoulder level.

"Why have you gone renegade? What can you gain by it?" asked Malvert as he withdrew potions from his cloak and drank them down in preparation for the scrying session.

"You wouldn't understand. I believe that I am acting in the best interests of the Guild, although I can see that the Guild is changing. Falignus now does away with even the pretense of autonomy amongst the wizards. Is this the Guild that you want to be a part of?"

"I trust Falignus and the Seventh Circle. They know things–secrets–that we do not. It is said that some knowledge can break the weak. Perhaps we would not be able to live with this knowledge that they seek to harness the power of. In any case, I have pledged myself to the Guild and am governed by the Council – as are you. You should think on this carefully," responded Malvert, pausing in his spellcraft.

Gwineval simply shook his head in response, as one would when scolding a child. Malvert reddened, but continued with the spell. He was gesturing over the cistern and then his eyes went blank and his head tilted to the side as if he might pass out.

Malvert recovered himself quickly, and stood upright, glaring at Gwineval.

The two wizards watched as a familiar unearthly mist began to emanate from the water in the cistern.

"It is done," said Malvert.

"You may go," replied Gwineval.

Malvert stiffened, then turned abruptly and strode from the chamber, shutting the door forcefully behind him.

Gwineval concentrated on the water and began to feel lightheaded. Staring into the pool, he soon perceived the sharp features and piercing blue eyes of Falignus staring back at him.

"What say you, Gwineval?" Falignus asked, his voice echoing supernaturally in Gwineval's head.

"Your dog has stirred up quite a ruckus here with the Tanna Varrans," replied Gwineval.

"Yes. He's sometimes a blunt instrument, but he has his uses. So what precisely is the reason you left the Tower in the company of these outlaws?" Falignus asked with a casual air.

"I'm researching something – something that I'd rather not discuss under these circumstances. I understand that this is terribly unorthodox, Falignus. Please give me some time to work through this and then I assure you that I will explain everything to your complete satisfaction."

"Gwineval?"

"Yes, Falignus?"

"When did you decide to start treating me like a fool?"

"I...I don't know what you mean."

"Let's drop this silly pretense of ignorance, shall we?"

Gwineval became nervous in reaction to Falignus' candor, and focused on trying to conceal it. He realized, to his horror, that his long lizard tongue was flicking back and forth rapidly. He quickly retracted it, but he feared that Falignus might have noticed it and perceived it as a sign of inner tension on his part.

"I understand that you are suspicious," Gwineval started to explain.

"I know about the Griffin and the force that it bears," Falignus interrupted.

Gwineval's blood froze in his cold veins. He did his best to maintain a collected demeanor, but wasn't confident that he was achieving it.

"Your paranoia is getting the better of you. It will become clear that my actions are in the best interest of the Guild, you just need to give me some time," Gwineval pleaded.

"You're not very convincing, Gwineval. I know about this Safreon person and his influence on you. I see his power now. I see everything and yet you persist in trying to pass off this charade that you are playing at like some child."

Gwineval knew that he was now at a turning point. He knew that Falignus would perceive any delay in his response, but it was more important to carefully consider his response. Gwineval thought about Safreon and Hemlock–and considered that he owed them nothing.

He continued to weigh the matter in his mind. I could return to the Guild and let Safreon and Hemlock be the renegades. I could work with Falignus to study the Wand. I could even join Malvert in preventing Safreon and Hemlock from escaping. But Falignus already knows so much, what value would my information be? And I would never be trusted by him after this. I can never go back now. My one hope lies in getting access to the Wand and then trading it, or information on it, back to Falignus in return for entry back into the Guild. But he knows too much now. I have no leverage.

Gwineval responded and his tone took on a note of defiance. "I see there is no point in parlaying with you. You are a megalomaniac and are intent on turning the Guild into a dictatorship. I can see that you will move against me. I should have moved against you long ago."

Falignus laughed, still maintaining a playful tone, which Gwineval found extremely irritating. "What will you do–go renegade and hide in the outer regions? We'll find you and deal with you. You know this to be true. Will you leave the City altogether, trying your luck to cross the veil? Don't be a fool. I give you one last chance to reconsider."

"Refuse," responded Gwineval, dropping the scrying link.

He stood there beside the cistern for a few moments, considering what had just transpired. He was now a renegade – forever shorn from the Wizard Guild.

My life, my possessions, my research: all of it is gone now, except that which remains in my mind.

But there was no other course, another part of his mind responded.

Next he considered the extent of Falignus' knowledge about him and his companions and their intentions.

He even knows about the Wand, Gwineval thought as he grimaced to himself and lowered his head to the side of the cistern.

...

Hemlock stood outside the building Gwineval had entered, waiting for him to emerge. She made some small talk with Safreon, but everyone was on edge and wary of the presence of the wizards, and showed little appetite for conversation.

As she waited, Hemlock suddenly felt an ache in her head. Turning, she locked eyes with one of the wizards that had come with the wizard, Malvert. This wizard was staring at her, and seemed mildly distracted – almost entranced. Hemlock became alarmed because she felt that some magic spell had been cast on her. Her eyes, which had lowered as she took stock of her sensation of the magic, bolted back to the Wizard. He looked away and was now chatting with a companion, seemingly oblivious.

Hemlock analyzed the fading sensation of magic. It had been a magic of dreams. She felt sure of her identification of the spell. She surprised herself by not reacting with alarm to what had just transpired.

Before she could consider why she felt no alarm, Hemlock saw Gwineval emerge from the building, looking grave. His eyes met Safreon's and Gwineval nodded quickly from side to side. Safreon's features darkened.

Malvert, who had been having a private discussion with his advisors, strode over and stood expectantly before Gwineval.

"Have you chosen to walk the path of prudence or of recklessness?"

Gwineval did not respond, but stared at him cooly.

"Fair enough, I shall find out myself," he grunted as he made toward the doorway of the building.

Tored stood to block his way, but Taros Ranvok waved him aside saying, "Let him pass. There is no profit in preventing their communication."

Hemlock noted that Tored did not look very convinced by this line of reasoning, but he stood aside.

Malvert closed the door to the building.

"What happened?" Safreon asked Gwineval.

"I am a renegade, Falignus knows...everything," responded Gwineval in a hissed whisper.

"How?" asked Safreon in a whisper, wanting to say more, but glancing anxiously toward the wizards, who stood some paces away.

"I have some suspicions," responded Gwineval. "He must be using some forbidden form of divination. But I never imagined the extent to which he must be practicing the dark arts if he has been able to learn so much."

Safreon gave another concerned look in response.

Malvert soon emerged from the building, looking pleased. He gestured savagely at Hemlock, Gwineval and Safreon.

"This lot are now officially enemies of the Wizard Guild and enemies of the City," he declared so viciously that he spit as he spoke.

Hemlock tensed up, sizing up the other two wizards that had come with Malvert. She judged that they would fight like those that they had faced in the Tower atrium, days ago. She returned her eyes to Malvert; malice seemed to palpably emanate from him. He would clearly be another class of enemy.

Malvert's muscles bulged and tensed as he turned to Taros Ranvok and continued to speak. "We ask you one final time to release them into our custody. Failure to do so places this town and all of its inhabitants at risk of also being declared enemies of the Wizard Guild, with all of the negative consequences that could entail."

Tored stepped forward and took his place next to Taros Ranvok. Hemlock noticed that Tored no longer seemed angry. She noticed his eyes, however. Something about them had changed. They were so dispassionate that they seemed to absorb the light around them – leaving them visible only as dark burning coals.

"Our leader, Pan Taros, is in mourning, as I told you. I must interrupt him now, for only he can decide how to react to this ultimatum," Taros Ranvok responded. "You and your lot will wait outside the town for our answer," he concluded, pointing at the wizards.

Malvert faced Tored as he approached to lead the wizards from the Town. Hemlock thought that it was like watching two storm fronts clashing in the sky as their gazes met.

Hemlock was poised for violence to break out at any moment.

The other Guild wizards approached and pulled at Malvert, and he turned to move, defusing the situation.

The group descended through the walkways and ramps of the town. The townspeople gawked at the wizards, who returned their interested stares with dark looks. Hemlock heard the townspeople begin to grumble as the wizards left them in their wake to contemplate the meanings of those hostile stares.

Eventually, they reached the lower sections of the town and the wizards descended a ramp and stood on the floor of the valley, waiting for an answer from the Tanna Varrans.

Hemlock heard a commotion from the upper levels of the town and, looking upwards, she could see the brightly festooned figure of Pan Taros, King of the Tanna Varrans, descending to answer the Wizard's ultimatum. The townspeople gathered behind the king and his retinue as they approached. Soon most of the town was gathered to hear the proceedings.

Pan Taros, flanked by Taros Ranvok and Tored, stepped to the top of the ramp.

Hemlock thought that the King looked terrible compared to how he had looked when she had first seen him.

Pan Taros raised his hand to silence the crowd and then addressed the wizards. "You have come and made demands of my people. Your words – at first like olive branches – have now turned to swords. We are not a people that value swords. We have made an effort, under my reign, to turn our backs on violence. The path that violence took our people down in our past has been fraught with despair. Beware the path that you walk, wizards.

"We practice compassion. I do not know the full import of the matters that lie between you and these four that you seek to have released as your prisoners. Nor do I feel that it is my role to intercede in this matter. Yet you have made it clear to me, through your innuendo, that I must choose either to commit an act of indirect violence against our visitors, since it will no doubt lead to violent results for them, or through inaction, risk incurring a potentially violent reaction from you. I choose the latter path, for I believe that it is better to risk violence through inaction than to take an indirect action that will result in violence. Violence in any form, in any scope, is abhorrent. It matters not to me that the target of the violence is my people rather than these four. We are all brothers under the sun and stars. In another lifetime or universe, these four are probably kin to me. All men and women should look upon themselves and others in this light. There is no difference between them and me. When you threaten them, you threaten me.  
You have my answer and though it may displease and anger you, please consider my words. Violence is not the answer and it never can be. Violent acts are destructive to both the perpetrator and the victim, for there is no difference between either party. The illusion of separateness in this life is the cause of much suffering. Leave now and tell your leaders that our only wish is for peace."

Malvert did not respond to Pan Taros' words. He simply turned and started to move away from the town at a brisk pace. His companion wizards quickly joined him.  
As Hemlock watched, the tattoos with which the retreating wizards were covered began to glow. Soon the trio were moving away at supernatural speed, although their gaits had not changed. After a time, the wizards crested a distant hill and then passed out of view.

##  Chapter Eighteen

Hemlock heard the townspeople muttering with disapproval as she moved through them, following Safreon, who led the group upwards through the town toward Pan Taros and Taros Ranvok. Hemlock wasn't certain whether the townspeople were mostly expressing anger toward the wizards or despair at the notion of having two enemies simultaneously. She heard smatterings of both points of view as she moved her attention from one conversation to another as she walked.

Safreon reached the spot where the King stood and Hemlock, Gwineval and Merit filed in beside him.

"Thank you very much for that," Safreon said solemnly.

"I gave you nothing, but merely applied our moral code to the present situation," replied the King.

"Fair enough. But we are still grateful," Safreon replied.

Pan Taros nodded distantly.

"We also wish to express our sympathy for your recent loss," Safreon continued.

The King looked down for a moment and then responded, "These are difficult times."

"I understand. Taros Ranvok, can we meet with you at your convenience to determine our next course of action?" asked Safreon.

Leaving Safreon's question unanswered, the group noticed a commotion below. People were pointing toward the distant rise over which the wizards had recently departed.

Hemlock looked and saw a cloud of dust was rising over the crest of the rise.

"What is that?" she asked.

Nobody answered her and everyone seemed to be wondering the same thing.

People began to look up. Hemlock saw that a Tanna Varran scout was flying overhead and appeared to be spiraling downward to land near the ramp.

The flying warrior landed hard, and Hemlock admired his skill in maintaining his footing. He quickly folded his wings and ran up the ramp toward the King.

"Sir," he spoke breathlessly, "the wizards have entered their Oberon harvester and are now approaching the town."

The King's features hardened.

Tored surged to the King's side, his features cast in sudden alertness, and a glimmer in his eyes. He seemed, in that moment, like an old tool, now dusted off and re-sharpened. He looked the equal of a hundred lesser men.

"Sir, they make to attack the Town. Our spears and javelins cannot harm them in that armored beast. We must bring the old ballista to bear. It is our only weapon against them," counseled Tored.

The King nodded his agreement. Hemlock noticed that he appeared frighteningly detached from the weight of the situation. Taros Ranvok hurried him to the upper levels as warriors scrambled below to pull up the ramp from the Town to the valley floor.

"What should we do?" asked Hemlock, just as she saw a metallic figure in the distance, glinting in the mid-morning light playing over the far hill.

"Follow Tored," answered Safreon, fighting through the crowd.

The outlanders ascended the levels of the Town once more, where a great siege engine was being brought to bear. It looked old and seldom used, with great clouds of dust and grime emitting from it as a team of warriors lifted and rolled it on creaking wheels toward the balustrade at the edge of the platform.

Hemlock watched nervously as the distant figure became fully visible. She recognized the towering, slim figure from her adventure in the Wizard Tower, where she had seen a similar figure under construction.

"String the ballista!" cried Tored.

A group of men climbed around and on top of the great engine, stringing a heavy rope amongst its inner workings and finally straining to run the rope between the limbs of the machine, which resembled a giant crossbow.

"Load!" cried Tored.

Another group of men carried a great iron projectile on a wheeled cart toward the ballista. When they reached the side of the siege engine, they gathered around and lifted it from the cart suspended on leather straps. After a great effort, the projectile rested behind the great rope, which had been sprung under a tremendous load by the mechanisms of the contraption. Hemlock nervously eyed the approach of the Harvester.

"It's taking too long!" Hemlock shouted.

"No, it's not," replied Tored evenly, "but we'll only get one shot."

Pan Taros and Taros Ranvok arrived at the chaotic scene as Tored directed his men to position the ballista.

Taros Ranvok rushed over to Safreon. "Can you use your magic against it?"  
Safreon looked dubious. Gwineval responded, "The harvester is designed with an anti–magic shield to protect against the Witches and their minions. Our magic cannot harm it either without hours to prepare the proper counterspells."

Taros Ranvok nodded grimly in response.

"Tell Tored to aim for the seams in the iron," Gwineval added.

"I will," shouted Taros Ranvok. He ran over to Tored and relayed Gwineval's advice.

A dozen warriors strained to move the weapon into position. The old siege engine creaked under the strain, but Hemlock judged that it had been built in the Tanna Varran way, with special magical angles and woodcraft. The ropes were aged, but they held under the tremendous forces that the siege engine wrought upon them.

Hemlock turned back to the Harvester, still doubting that Tored would even get a single shot off before the hulking figure began to tear away at the Town. She judged that it would smash through the wooden structure in no time. The sculpted appearance of the Harvester, which was cast as a sneering, beautiful youth, lent an aspect of perversion to the threat that it posed. She wondered whether she, Safreon, Gwineval and Merit could flee from the wreckage of the Town, and escape the wizards.

_Or should we surrender?_ She thought to herself, experiencing a cloud of doubt at their prospects of making it back to the City undetected.

"Fire!" cried Tored from behind, surprising her.

And the projectile was released. The cast iron arrow sailed through the air toward the gargantuan iron harvester which was now only a hundred yards or so from the Town.

The great arrow's flight lasted less than a second, but it felt much longer to Hemlock.

The projectile struck the giant iron torso at a seam of the shoulder, smashing into several pieces, shearing the great arm off and leaving a huge impression in the iron shoulder where it had impacted. The great iron arm fell to the earth with a thud, which reverberated through the valley.

Furious sparks of magical energy played over the torso of the harvester, and it suddenly went rigid. Slowly, almost serenely, the hulking figure fell forward to the ground. When it hit with a crash, it broke into several pieces, which hissed and burned as magical energies were released.

Small robed figures crawled forth from the ruined head, some limping and some dragging others who could not walk. They retreated toward the distant rise. From the top of the rise, two score more figures descended in force to meet the retreating wizards.

Tored looked to Taros Ranvok and asked, "Shall we slay or capture them?"

Taros Ranvok looked conflicted. "I must discuss this with my Father first."

...

The four outlanders returned to their lodgings in the great hall, which served as living quarters for the extended family of Taros Ranvok and the line of the King. They soon were engaged in an animated discussion about what their next course of action would be.

"We need to get the Wand," urged Gwineval, looking toward Safreon.

"I know, but how do we explain our actions to the Tanna Varrans without arousing their suspicion? Should we leave the Town and seek refuge in the caves?" Safreon asked.

"These people are now facing the wrath of the Witch and the wizards. Don't they need our help?" asked Hemlock.

"Perhaps they do. But considering that we are now being hunted by the Wizard Guild, I think that we need the Wand in order to help anyone," said Gwineval.

"I agree," replied Safreon. "What if we propose an alliance to the Tanna Varrans? With the power of the Wand, we should be able to repulse the Witch, should she attack, and perhaps even repel an attack by the Wizard Guild. In exchange, they will allow us to stay here for a time and prepare for our next move."

"That could be the start of a war," stated Gwineval.

"The Tanna Varrans must weigh their options. From where I sit, they do not have a lot of them. They have angered the two principal powers in these lands bound to the City and are at risk of being annihilated by both of them." Safreon paused, directing his gaze inward. "I believe that we are entering a time of battle, where the fate of the City and the surrounding lands will be decided for generations to come."

Hemlock considered Safreon's words. She was amazed that her life had changed so drastically in less than one week. She had gone from being an idealistic rogue in the Warrens to being at the forefront of what Safreon had just described as a war for the fate of the entire world, as she knew it.

"Did I cause this?" she wondered aloud.

Safreon turned to her: "You may have been the catalyst that set these events in motion. But these tensions have been building for many years, I think. I believe that the Wizard Guild has been building their power in order to try and completely dominate the City. It also seems to me that this Witch may have been using the same strategy against the Tanna Varrans."

Hemlock was comforted by his words. Still, in the back of her mind, she felt responsible. She thought back to the Badger Guild and all of the other people that she had slain in the Warrens; her thoughts even returned to the Mathi: the terrible beast which, in the end, had seemed so frail as it struggled for its life. Hemlock wasn't sure that it was even alive according to her understanding of the concept, but she still knew that she had taken something from the beast that day.

Still somewhat uneasy, she rose and entered the bath chamber. It was a warm room, dominated by a thirty yard wooden pool which was tiled with earth-toned ceramics. The water was warm and steam rose toward vents in the ceiling.

There were some townsfolk relaxing in the pool, talking softly amongst themselves.

Their conversation paused as Hemlock disrobed; she knew that her toned and well proportioned body was growing further into the fullness of womanhood with every passing day. She was still getting used to the effect that this had on others.

She lowered herself into the pool, content to be alone in her thoughts, which, for the moment, had ceased to trouble her.

...

"You encountered an envoy from the Witch during your harvest?" Falignus asked, sitting in the audience chamber of the Wizard Council. He was debriefing an Oberon harvesting team which was delivering an unusual report from their latest foray into the Witch Crags. After having heard the news of Malvert's misadventure with the Tanna Varrans, he was in no mood for news of more surprises from the region.

The leader of the harvesting team seemed to pale slightly as he answered, although he sounded resolute. "Yes, an apparition appeared to us. It came upon us suddenly and gave off an aura of great power. It appeared almost human and was dressed finely. These are usually the most terrible of the spirits. We had not been issued a Harvester yet, so we assumed battle formation."

The leader paused and looked up for a moment for affirmation from Falignus.

Falignus gestured for him to continue.

"It did not attack however, and began to speak to us. It said that it was an emissary from the Witch of the Ziggurat and that she wished to speak with Zaringer. I told it that you are now head of the Council and it noted that, but then said that the Witch would speak with whoever now leads the Guild. It stated that the Witch would scry using the Oberon obelisk when the moon reaches its solstice in five days hence."

"Did this apparition state why the Witch wished to scry with me?" asked Falignus.

"No, it did not. It retreated quickly once the message was delivered."

"Interesting," said Falignus, not dismissing the harvesting team as he usually did immediately after receiving their report.

Falignus slumped back in his ornate chair.

Why would the Witch want to speak with us? Is this related to Gwineval and recent events?

He didn't relish communicating with the Witch, whom he viewed as a corruption of nature. It was true, Falignus reasoned, that Zaringer, the former head of the Seventh Circle and his former mentor, had lately become much like the Witch and her lot. The difference between them wasthat the Seventh Circle sought to use dark magic as a means to extend life to further their goal of establishing an ordered prosperity, whereas the Witches used it to prevent their death indefinitely to maintain their reign of abusive tyranny.

Falignus alone knew that not just Zaringer, but all of the wizards of the Seventh Circle now rested near death in a state not unlike that of the Witches and their ilk. This was only meant to be temporary, purportedly so the lore that these individuals had accumulated over the years could be leveraged for the final spells that would be required to realize extended life enjoyed at the height of physical vigor, which was the long term goal of the Seventh Circle research.

It will be different for me–I'll never have to become one of those...things.

Under my leadership, we will realize the goal of extended life. But not so much extended that we live as spectres, haunting the world. We will extend life in its natural fullness, and when the time comes that even our arts fail us, we will die with grace. This will happen in my lifetime–before I am reduced to what Zaringer has become.

Despite his determined optimism, some part of Falignus considered that he would have to deal with Zaringer and the other Seventh Circle wizards, if things didn't go according to plan. He knew that if the dark spell research worked, that it might restore Zaringer and the others and allow them to return to the living in their normal forms for a time. But he wondered what might happen when the magical effects inevitably waned–whether Zaringer and the others might not let go of their 'lives' willingly.

_All things should be dealt with in their due time_ , he cautioned himself and returned his attention to the proposed discussion with the Witch.

Falignus reflected on whether he would speak with the Wizard Council about the unusual offer.

Tonight makes five days from the meeting with the spirit. The scry is to happen tonight, in mere hours.

"The Council would want to debate the matter at length. It is clever that the Witch hasn't allowed me much time for counsel. She aims to outsmart me, I gather," he pondered.

Falignus thought about consulting Samberlin, the Speaker of the Senate, whom he had lately engaged as an ally and come to value greatly as an advisor. When Samberlin had approached him and suggested that they join forces, Falignus had known that the Senator planned to gain influence over him via their partnership. Falignus had, in turn, thought that he'd be gaining a chance to manipulate the Senate through Samberlin. Falignus had been surprised to find that he had much in common with the old Senator and that they shared a common philosophy of governance.

The wiry old worm has his own agenda, though. I mustn't allow him to get too close to me. It's better that he is unaware of this meeting for now.

"All of you," commanded Falignus toward the detachment who had just reported to him, "do not speak of this matter to anyone. That includes Malvert and the other Council wizards. I will inform them after the scrying session takes place."

The members of the harvester detachment bowed in acknowledgement of the order.

"You," Falignus ordered the harvest leader, "come with me to the Seventh Circle chambers. You will initiate the scry."

The man looked fearful, but replied in agreement.

Some hours later, Falignus stood in a small, round room which was finished in dark obsidian. Its only content was an opulently sculpted obsidian pool in its center. The chamber was lit by a low red light, though no point of origin of that light was visible.

The wizard stood over the pool as Falignus regarded him from the nearby wall.

A telltale greenish mist rose from the surface of the pool, its water looking black and subtly threatening as it rested in the dark stone of the obsidian carved basin, its surface still and featureless save for the reflections of the green mist and the room around it.

Falignus noted with some humor that the First Circle wizard almost cried out when the scrying link was established, for the visage of the Witch was clearly visible in waters, and she was terrible in her beauty.

Her skin was cast in an unearthly pallor, but its tone was harshly beautiful. Her features were sharp and merciless, yet their comeliness was unparalleled. Her eyes were a dark, deep blue like cold ocean waters. Her cheekbones were high and imperial and her nose complemented her face like a fine polished sword does a dress military uniform.

Falignus waved his hand toward the other Wizard dismissively, and began to speak to the Witch.

"Greetings. You offer a most unexpected chance to parlay," Falignus opened, conscious of his own revulsion toward the image which he gazed upon, but determined not to let it show on his face.

"I have a proposal for the Wizard Guild," answered the Witch boldly in a voice that seemed to command an unearthly power, even to Falignus.

He found himself lingering on the beauty of that voice. It seemed to cloud his thoughts.

He had been warned about the Witch's voice by Zaringer. It was said to have the power to control men's minds.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Falignus cast a small spell of warding which he had prepared prior to the scrying session. It distorted his hearing magically. He hoped that it would prevent the spell of the Witch's voice from affecting him.

"I am listening."

"We both seem to have a common problem."

"Is that so? I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh you understand," stated the Witch commandingly, her voice booming in his ears, even through Falignus' warding spell. "Your people were bloodied by this particular problem not six days ago."

Falignus decided to indulge her haughty tone, which he found strongly compelling, but well within his capability to resist.

"Better that she underestimates me," he thought.

He replied mildly. "It is true–there was an incident with one of these savage villages and one of my harvesting teams. It is being dealt with."

"Is it?" the Witch challenged, but in a less imperious tone.

"What have we to fear from these... Tanna Varrans?"

"Perhaps more than you understand."

"Explain."

"They are passive now. Our peace treaty has bred some of their aggression out of the younger generations. But this is a people that we have fought for centuries before the sundering, when our land crossed the veil and was bound to the City. Do not underestimate them."

"Interesting. They will be managed. We will not have to confront them en masse."

"These city dwellers that they harbor–that is your concern then?"

Falignus was impressed and he didn't bother to conceal it. "Yes, you are well informed."

"You believe that they are the reason for your difficulties with the Tanna Varrans, but I am telling you that the Tanna Varrans are also a force to be reckoned with. Tell me of the city dwellers."

"They are renegades; a renegade wizard and his companions."

"I know that they are powerful. They have slain an ancient ally of mine, and there are few in these lands that could have accomplished that. I will not underestimate these Renegades as you do the Tanna Varrans. Do you think that they might find some common ground with one another?"

Falignus paused to think a moment. "So you believe that the Renegades might find a willing ally in these savages?"

"Yes, I do. Certain events have transpired. I was surprised by the Renegades as I spied on the Tanna Varrans. I was forced to slay one of the Tanna Varrans during my escape. Knowing their history, and especially in light of the foolhardy attack launched by your wizards on their town, I believe that they will now prepare for war. They consider us both enemies now, and the Renegades are their natural allies."

"Thus making us natural allies."

"Yes."

Falignus considered her words. He had not seen the Tanna Varrans as a threat in his prescient visions, yet according to the Witch, perhaps they had not been at that time.

Could I have misread them like I did these companions of Gwineval's?

"We must strike them together. After we win the battle, the rest of the Tanna Varran towns will fall soon after. Then we will be rid of them, and free to build more harvesting obelisks in the valleys and caves," the Witch continued.

"It seems that the Tanna Varrans are more of an obstacle for you than for us. We are aware that the most powerful spirits are drawn to the hilltops, resulting in the richest Oberon harvest points being located there. The valleys and caverns would not be rich harvesting sites in comparison," replied Falignus challengingly.

A flash of anger played over the Witches features. "The Tanna Varrans are a fighting force that your Renegades could muster–could use against you. Can you risk that?"

"You counterbalance them–they cannot strike out in force without being vulnerable to you."

"True enough, but I am guessing that with the help of these Renegades, the Tanna Varrans might be powerful enough to attack me. Perhaps they could defeat me first and then turn their attention to you? Does that potential concern you?"

"Perhaps," he replied. He considered her words.

What if she is right? An army led by Gwineval and equipped with whatever veiled magical force that he may soon wield could threaten the Wizard Guild.

"What exactly are you proposing?" he responded aloud.

"We must gather our forces and siege their town in concert. I will immediately interdict their town and keep an eye out for the Renegades. If they move, I will know it, and therefore you will know it. The Tanna Varrans will believe that their Town represents their best chance for defense, and they will count on me to attack in anger. They will persuade the Renegades to remain to help them defend themselves, thinking to deal with us in detail. We will surprise them, attack together and shatter their defenses," explained the Witch.

Falignus thought about her proposal only for a moment. Zaringer had warned him about the persuasive powers of the Witch and her kind. But in this situation, the interests of the Witch and the wizards did seem to be in alignment. After the resolution of this battle, there would be time to deal with the Witch.

"The plan is sound. I do not have to reflect further on it; I agree. My terms are as follows: the Renegades are to be captured alive and turned over to us. This includes all of their possessions and personal effects."

The Witch looked intrigued. "They bear something that you desire?"

"Do not concern yourself with that. They have nothing that would help your ... kind." he responded.

The Witch smiled condescendingly, as if amused by the thinly veiled insult, and replied slowly. "I accept your terms. You are wise to bind your fortunes to mine."

##  Chapter Nineteen

Hemlock was sitting in the modest kitchen of the hovel that she and her sister Mercuria lived in, which was located deep in the Warrens district of the City.

She felt an odd comfort as she surveyed many familiar objects. She looked over several well-worn cooking utensils: pots and pans, bowls, bottles and silverware. She had recently purchased replacements for these items using the coin she had obtained from her spoils of battle. Hemlock was quietly proud of that fact, and the feeling resurfaced as she surveyed the items. But oddly, the new items were not there any longer; the older ones, since discarded, were now back in their familiar places.

On a nearby table rested a small painting, crudely framed. It was a rendering of Hemlock and her sister, done years ago by a street merchant for a few coppers. The likenesses were reasonably good, and Hemlock treasured the item. She gazed at the image of her sister, and Hemlock began to wonder where she might be.

Hemlock rose, thinking to investigate, but her attention was diverted inexplicably to the street outside of the floor level apartment. A thin crowd moved along the street, as was common for midday in the Warrens.

Hemlock noticed a figure in a dark cape lingering across the street. The figure turned to her, and with a start, Hemlock saw that the face of the figure was well-known to her, although she had only beheld it a few times.

The stark, masculine and appealing features of the wizard, Falignus, cast in the shadow of his hood, regarded her intently from across the street.

Hemlock felt an oddly compelling tincture of emotions at seeing Falignus. She felt intrigued, intruded upon, excited and apprehensive–all at the same time.

Falignus began to move toward the door of her apartment, moving deftly through the crowd with an almost comic grace. As he moved, his eyes were locked with hers as she stood at the window.

She realized then, with a start, that he had moved out of view and that he must now be waiting at the door.

She strode over to the door, and there he stood, his tall form nearly obscuring the street scene behind him. The two of them stood there for a few moments, regarding one another through the glass window of the door. Hemlock decided to open the door and admit him as her curiosity overshadowed her caution.

Falignus entered the room and Hemlock closed the door. She noted with some embarrassment that his fine attire contrasted with the humble effects of the apartment. He bowed to her with a grandiose flourish, and removed his hat and cape, which he rested on his arm. Hemlock gestured to take the garments, and Falignus handed them to her.

"Hello, Hemlock, my name is Falignus," he said simply.

"Hello," she replied, finding the situation strangely humorous.

Noting her smile, he said, "I apologize for the circumstances of our conversation, I know they are a bit...unusual."

Hemlock found, suddenly, that she had begun to float up toward the ceiling in a fashion reminiscent of her first encounter with Falignus in the weightless room within the Wizard Tower. Concentrating, she found that she was able to float back down to the floor. Oddly, this didn't seem terribly strange to Hemlock, and she continued to speak with Falignus.

"So we meet at last–and you're awake this time," she replied coyly, noting things about him like the line of his jaw and his strong eyebrows.

"Yes, but you are not... How ironic," he replied with a smile.

"Oh," she said with a reflective tone. "I suppose you're right. What is this? Some sort..."

"...of magic. Yes," he interrupted. "There was no other way to speak with you at the moment. So I chose to use this method. One of my wizards cast a dream link spell on you during the meeting with the Tanna Varrans."

Hemlock considered that.

"And what if I object to this communication?" she asked with feigned gravity.

"Then I'll end it, of course," responded Falignus with a mock bow.

They were silent for a time and then Falignus spoke.

"You and I are kindred spirits I think," he said.

She responded, "Really? How so?"

"We are the strongest of our kind, destined to shape events. We are confronted with choices concerning whether we will exercise our power or let others who are less capable guide the course of events," he said, taking on an almost academic tone as he paced around the room, inspecting it.

"It seems that you have a high opinion of yourself," Hemlock countered.

"It is true–hubris is often an unfortunate side effect of power and control. I do try to control it."

"You say that we are the same. I am just a glorified pick-purse from the Warrens, and you are, apparently, the leader of the Wizard Guild. How does that make us alike?" she asked.

"Hemlock, don't play coy with me. Your reputation precedes you. This...handler... that you run with, Safreon, cannot dominate you forever. You must eventually realize your destiny."

"My destiny? And what exactly is that?" she asked, annoyed at how he had referred to Safreon as her handler.

"Who can say what your destiny is? But I can say that it will be far greater than anything that this Safreon can envision. You should not be so influenced by his counsel," Falignus cautioned.

Hemlock was angry now. "If you knew Safreon, you'd know that he is a good man. He tries to mold me to be good and he has been like a father to me."

"Ah, that explains it. Well, Hemlock, don't allow your desire for a father figure to cloud your reasoning. He is not your father and never can be. You are like me, and many in this City. We are set adrift on our own, and must guide ourselves by our wits alone."

"You're wrong. I do share a bond with him."

Falignus smiled benevolently. "I'll say no more now on this topic."

As he looked around the room, his eyes fell on the painting of Hemlock and her sister. He seemed to take note of it for a time and then his gaze moved on.

"Hemlock, I've enjoyed talking to you. The spell force wears thin now."

He moved closer to her and she looked up into his eyes. She saw undisguised desire in his gaze.

"Do not come to me again in this way," she heard herself say, as she turned her back on him. Part of her railed against this course of action, but another part of her was still angry about what he had said to her.

He lectures me like a child! And how dare he accuse Safreon of manipulating me!

"As you wish," he responded with a tone of amusement, bowing again and retrieving his cloak and hat. "Perhaps we shall meet again in a more...natural setting."

Hemlock turned to take a final look at him, but he was gone and then the room was gone.

Her senses informed her of new surroundings. She suddenly smelled and tasted the humid air of the Tanna Varran bathing chamber.

She had apparently dozed off as she sat in the calming waters of the pool.

...

Hemlock sat in a circle with Safreon, Gwineval, Taros Ranvok and Tored, in the meeting chamber of the King. She took a moment to take in the surroundings again–feeling less inhibited when not in the presence of the King–and noticed that the wall sconces were once again emitting a gentle smoke which carried a pleasant, musky aroma. To her right was the upper hall and to her left, the lower. The fine chairs near the King's throne had been rearranged in a circular pattern for the meeting.

She heard a familiar whine of machinery and became conscious of Merit, who stood at some distance behind her.

He had not been offered a seat.

Hemlock nudged Safreon, who appeared to be deep in thought on her left. Getting his attention, she gestured behind her toward Merit. Safreon glanced back over his shoulder, and then nodded toward Hemlock.

Turning to Taros Ranvok, Safreon asked, "Can we have a seat for Merit as well?"

Taros Ranvok rose. "Yes, please forgive me, Merit."

Tored rose and adjusted his chair and a place was made for Merit between Tored and Gwineval, who sat to Hemlock's right.

"Thank you," Merit said.

Taros Ranvok cleared his throat. He picked up a small hand-held gong which had rested on the floor at the side of his chair, and struck it three times.

"We meet to discuss our plans relative to you four, whom we refer to as outlanders as a matter of convenience and without any ill intent. Pan Taros has declined to participate in this meeting. He has entrusted the decisions in these matters to Tored and I," said Taros Ranvok, clearly and confidently.

The young warrior and heir to the throne briefly locked eyes with Hemlock, and then shifted his attention to Safreon.

"It appears that the fate of our people and you Outlanders may now be firmly intertwined. We now appear to have a mutual enemy in the Wizard Guild. My people also may be subject to hostile actions by the Witch; and since she is aware of your involvement in the slaying of her minion, she may also bear you ill will."

Safreon grunted in agreement, Hemlock noted, nodding his head as he did so.

"We feel that it may benefit all of us to form a temporary alliance in order to deal with these threats together. If you can help us to deal with the Witch, we may also be able to help you to deal with the Wizard Guild and return to the City."

Taros Ranvok paused and looked toward Tored.

"We propose this in the hope and belief that your magical powers are as significant as we believe them to be. Certainly, you impressed us with your slaying of the Mathi. We were surprised at your inability to deal with the Wizard Guild harvester, however. Do you feel that you can contribute to fighting the Wizard Guild? Or will you continue to be powerless against them? If they return with more of those iron golems, will we have a plan to deal with them? I fear that we had some measure of luck against them the first time. Now they will be aware of our ballista and they will prepare tactics for dealing with them. We have two more ballista that we can prepare, but we wonder whether they will be enough without some magical aid from you?" said Tored.

Hemlock looked at Safreon expectantly. She saw that he looked tired, which worried her.

Safreon looked at Gwineval, who nodded at him.

"We have a plan to deal with the Wizard Guild. There is a magical item of great power which we need to retrieve. It is currently borne by a very unique creature which has been lingering at the borders of your land, waiting for a signal from me. It is a Griffin: half lion and half eagle. I believe that your patrols have been shadowing it?" Safreon asked.

"It is so," replied Tored.

"What is the nature of the item that it carries?" asked Taros Ranvok.

"It is known as a Wand of the Imperator. It is a magical item which has a great power of magical permanence and magical amplification. Do you know the history of the City? Do you know anything about the Imperator?" asked Safreon.

"Very little," responded Taros Ranvok.

"He and his descendants ruled the City from what we now call the Wizard Tower, prior to the Wizard Guild. He was an ambitious man who had visions of pushing out the borders of the City and thereby increasing the reach of the veil which enshrouds those areas which are now bound to the City, as it travels through space and time."

"He created several Wands which he gave to his henchmen. He sent them through the veil to seek out lands which could be bound to the City, using the power of the Wands. It was a dangerous mission, and many never returned. The Witch Crags, the northern Desert, the eastern Mountains and the southern Farmlands were all bound to the City in this way."

Safreon paused then, letting the story take hold in the minds of the Tanna Varrans. Hemlock could see that Taros Ranvok and Tored were suitably impressed, seemingly having been unaware of this aspect of the history of the City.

"So this item holds a power that could literally bind another land to the City?" asked Tored.

"Correct," replied Gwineval.

"Is that your intention?" asked Taros Ranvok.

"No," replied Safreon. "I have learned to use the powers of the Wand in other ways. The Wand can be used as an amplifier of magic. You now see two Sorcerers before you: one Wizard and one amateur practitioner. If we have the wand, we will wield a power equal to twenty wizards or more. The Imperator recognized this characteristic of the wands, and it aided and protected his henchmen to some extent as they entered unknown territories."

"Would it give us enough power to oppose the Wizard Guild?" asked Tored.

"I think so," responded Gwineval. "Falignus, leader of the wizards, is aware that we have a powerful item or ally –and he may even know that it is a Wand of the Imperator. Still, Safreon has spent years researching the Wand and learning to use it. Falignus may not anticipate the extent to which we will be able to harness its power. I think we will have some element of surprise when and if we meet them in battle."

Tored nodded in approval and Taros Ranvok followed suit.

Tored broke the ensuing silence. "What do you know of the battle disposition of the wizards?"

All eyes were on Gwineval. "The Wizard Guild has seven platoons of First Circle combat wizards. A minimum of two would typically remain at the Wizard Tower as a garrison. Circles two through six each can field a platoon in times of dire trouble. I do not expect Falignus to call these units up, as it would impact magical research, but it is possible.

I was aware of five operational Oberon harvesters, one of which you just destroyed. That should leave four available for the battle, if Falignus commits them all. The City Senate also fields a battle force, some of whom are likely to accompany the wizards, as they are allies. There are four companies of Senate Knights, two of which are mounted, three companies of light infantry and two companies of archers. I am uncertain how much of the Senate force might be deployed."

Hemlock watched Tored's jaw stiffen as he seemed locked in thought. "We have sent runners to the nearby Towns. Fortunately, they seem to be ready to answer a call to battle, if that call should come. We should be able to field eight companies of our Flying Lancers. We will have another eight companies of foot soldiers," said Tored.

"So that is sixteen companies on our side versus the Wizard Guild and maybe half of the Senate force? That should give us an advantage of several companies if the wizards do attack," observed Taros Ranvok, turning to face Tored.

Tored looked at Safreon. "That assumes that you Outlanders, armed with this Wand, can counterbalance the full force of the wizards?"

Safreon looked at Hemlock and then at Gwineval, before he responded. "I believe that it will be so. Gwineval and I have been planning. We have some ideas about how to maximize our magical power. It would not be an easy battle, by any means. But I believe that we will have a fighting chance."

"Perhaps that is the best we can hope for," said Tored. "Let us consider the Witch," he continued. "She is thought to have a force of some five thousand demons. Two thousand are semi–insubstantial foot soldiers, slow moving and dim witted. Another two thousand are thought to be more like bestial men. There are several hundred large, brutish types, weighing several times a man and towering over us. Our Lancers are best matched against them. There are also a number of minor Witches with limited magical abilities. And she may also have some Mathi with her, which you are already familiar with. She is a formidable foe and wields a powerful force."

"My goodness," exclaimed Gwineval, "they are so numerous!"

"It is true," said Tored, "but they are often feckless and chaotic. They do not use tactics against us, for the Witch cannot control them well during battle. They can be routed easily. Our battle drill and technique help us to manage their numbers."

"That is good. We will study your magic further. We may need to work with your craftsmen and loremasters in order to understand it as fully as possible. Gwineval and I will devise a strategy to maximize our magical power for use against them," said Safreon.

Hemlock looked at Taros Ranvok and Tored. Her appraisal was that they liked what they heard. Hemlock thought that the meeting was going well, although she was apprehensive about the possibility of war. She had been in many skirmishes and fights, but they had always been limited in scope and entered into with a clear purpose.

The notion of being on a battlefield, with hundreds suffering and dying people all around her, scared her a little bit. She had no desire to see the peaceful Tanna Varrans suffer and die in great numbers. Yet she did not see any alternative to the plans being discussed. The Wizard Guild and the Witch had to be dealt with and it seemed to her like a fortuitous chance to ally with the Tanna Varrans to do just that.

"We will brief Pan Taros on today's proceedings. I believe that the word of Tored and I will make the decision for him. I will come to you in your chamber and let you know," said Taros Ranvok, ending the meeting.

Everyone rose and bowed to one another, as was Tanna Varran custom. The Outlanders then returned to their lodgings to await the decision of Pan Taros.

...

Hemlock watched as a graceful creature descended to the floor of the valley.

Earlier in the evening, Taros Ranvok had come to their chamber with an answer to the question of an alliance between them and the Tanna Varrans. The answer was yes.

As soon as Safreon had heard this, he had insisted on rendezvousing with the Griffin and obtaining the Wand, which was now a cornerstone in their plans against the wizards and the Witch.

Hemlock watched as the Griffin descended through the clear night. It had a great golden mane which extended from the back of its head to cover its hindquarters. It also had large, powerful wings covered in rich, golden feathers.

The Griffin soared downwards, rearing up as it neared the ground, its huge wings beating furiously, as it landed on the valley turf.

The head of the creature was that of an impossibly large Eagle. Hemlock immediately was drawn in by its piercing eyes which were an icy blue.

The Griffin conducted itself with an air of nobility and with a grace which amazed Hemlock. It seemed to speak to the borders of her consciousness with a suggestion of a different time in a different realm.

"Beautiful," was all that she uttered as she regarded the creature.

Taros Ranvok, who stood beside her, was equally impressed.

"It is like the stuff of dreams made real and rendered in flesh and bone," he said.

Hemlock could see now that the Griffin clutched something in its front talon–something long which was almost engulfed by that large appendage.

Safreon approached the Griffin and addressed the assembled group, which included Gwineval, Merit and Tored in addition to Hemlock and Taros Ranvok.

"This is Penelope. She was trapped in our realm many years ago. I met her as I explored the mountains to the east of the City. I crafted a potion to communicate with her, and she has become a trusted friend and ally," said Safreon, as he strode up to the beast and gently stroked her mane.

Hemlock was still taken with the beauty of the beast. "May I approach her?" she asked.

"Certainly," responded Safreon.

Hemlock strode forward until she was within an arm's length of the great creature. It had an earthy but not unpleasant odor and its large blue eyes regarded her intently. Hemlock bowed to the creature, sensing immediately that it was intelligent.

Hemlock felt Gwineval not far behind her. She could almost sense the rogue Wizard's excitement, for she knew that he was desperately interested in the Wand of the Imperator, which was clutched in its right talon.

Hemlock noticed that Safreon seemed to be concentrating.

The Griffin made a clicking noise with her beak, and she lifted her right talon toward the unassuming rogue.

Safreon bowed and accepted the Wand from the Griffin.

Hemlock saw that the Wand was around two feet long and was fashioned from a black, rock-like substance. It was evidently fantastic in nature, since red tendrils of energy could be seen to undulate through its length in a way that Hemlock had never seen. At the tip of the wand, four intricately wrought golden struts extended and secured a faceted glass ball. Within the glass ball a piece of rock was suspended, as if floating. The rock was molten and fiery and seemed to be on the border between a solid and a liquid state. The Wand had a certain gravitas about it, eclipsing even the awe that Hemlock had just felt when she beheld the Griffin.

She heard Gwineval hiss in wonder behind her.

"It is true, then. It really does exist and it appears just as described in the ancient tomes," Gwineval stated reverently.

"Quickly, let us get this Wand back to the safety of the Town," stated Safreon, moving at once at a brisk pace.

The Griffin cried out once, and it was a great cry that echoed through the entire valley.

Hemlock and her friends paused to watch the grace and power of the creature once more displayed as it climbed into the air with tremendous flaps of its wings.

"Quickly," hollered Safreon, some distance ahead.

Hemlock jogged off toward Safreon, trying to hold on to the image of the Griffin in her memory and afraid that her recollection of its beauty might fade over time.

##  Chapter Twenty

Gwineval stood in front of a workbench that was filled with urns, vials and glass bottles. There were also a few dusty tomes, which the Tanna Varrans had retrieved from their archives. The books detailed the Tanna Varran technique of craftsmanship, which was imbued with magical properties in a way that Gwineval had never encountered. It was a ritualistic magic, achieved in part by chanting and sometimes even dance.

The workshop faced east, toward the City, and it was in this direction that Gwineval's thoughts soon turned. He considered his (former) life in the Wizard Guild and his research. He had enjoyed that life and would miss the vast store of magical knowledge and the other resources which the Wizard Guild had provided him. At least the new Tanna Varran magic proved to him that there were still things that he could learn without the help of the Wizard Guild.

He then considered his body modifications. He had been respected in the Guild for changing his body irrevocably. Living in the Wizard Tower, he had never felt out of place, for wizards understood and respected the change to his appearance.

How will I be treated outside of the Guild? As a freak?

He reflected on how the Tanna Varrans had regarded him since he had arrived: always with hushed whispers and furtive glances.

_I will never truly fit in like I did in the Guild_ , Gwineval concluded with a melancholy thought.

His eye strayed to a pair of Tanna Varran wings which hung on the wall of the workshop. They appeared to be in good working order.

Without being conscious of doing it, he found that he had taken a step toward the wings. He glanced across the room where the Wand of the Imperator lay within an unlocked chest. It would not be difficult to escape the Town with the Wand, he realized.

He had learned enough about the Wand already, under the instruction of Safreon, to know that he could use it to enchant almost any spell with permanence. That meant that he would likely be able to use the Tanna Varran wings to fly all the way to the City–and to do it faster than any Tanna Varran pursuer. He thought that even a magical creature like the Griffin would not be able to keep up with the boosted speed that he would enjoy by using the Wand.

_I could do it_ , he finally thought to himself, his scaled brow furrowing at the notion.

But then he thought of Falignus and the Seventh Circle, and what the power of the Wand would mean for them. He knew that he would not be able to return to the City without having to deal with the Wizard Guild. He would have to return to them and he would have to bargain his way back into their membership by presenting the Wand to them. Falignus would be hegemonic with the Wand at his disposal. None would be able to oppose his will. This would mean, Gwineval reasoned, that whatever dark agenda that Falignus and the Seventh Circle had been working toward over the recent years would likely soon be fully realized.

That notion was so distasteful to Gwineval that he turned away from the wings and his dreams of returning to the City.

He wondered whether it was personal animosity or some larger sense of altruism that motivated his decision. He hoped it was the latter, but had to admit to himself that the former was clearly in play in the decision that he had reached.

I will remain a renegade, working to destroy the Wizard Guild.

Gwineval shook his head in a melancholy way. He still couldn't believe the path that his life was now on.

Sighing, he returned to the workbench.

He was moderately excited about a line of research which he was following in conjunction with the Wand. He then eyed a small lizard which was sitting nonchalantly in a cage on the table.

I need to get Safreon so that we can attempt the experiment, he thought, striding out of the room.

...

The clanging of the cymbals was deafening even in the open air of the night, which surrounded a high, open platform near the top of the Town. Hemlock rose and moved away from a large bonfire, noting that the Tanna Varrans around her seemed ecstatic. Throngs of warriors danced around the fire wildly, for once appearing out of doors without the blue chalk with which they normally covered themselves in order to conceal themselves from the undead.

Hemlock was happy to be able to absorb the optimistic energy from the ceremony, yet she was experiencing an unshakable feeling of alienation from the Tanna Varrans which caused her to move away from them. She was too conscious of herself and had not been able to bond with the warriors through the ritual. She knew that her inability to join the ceremony didn't affect her motivation to fight, though. Her own basic motivation was quite strong: defeat the wizards. If this Witch and her minions stood in the way of achieving that goal, then they needed to be defeated as well.

She climbed a slender stairway to an upper level where the Tanna Varran leaders observed the writhing masses of warriors on the lower platform. Concern was painted on their grim faces as Pan Taros, Tored, Gwineval and Safreon looked impassively down, with Taros Ranvok, alone, looking subtly confident. Merit stood quietly in the rear.

"Look at our people roused for war for the first time in a hundred years," proclaimed Taros Ranvok, openly showing for the first time what Hemlock had perceived, a mild but unrestrained joy.

"It's been a hundred years of stability," answered Pan Taros in a downtrodden monotone.

"Perhaps," responded Taros Ranvok with a sideways glance, "but for what? We remain static while our enemies grow stronger? We can no longer stand by while the Witches gorge on souls and gain power without taking action to secure our future."

Pan Taros responded angrily: "You don't understand. You take the short view. This life that you now lead is not the end. How many souls will die in battle and lose their chance at enlightenment? It is better to die than to commit murder. I know the people's will–they agree with you and Tored, and believe that it is a time for war. I know that I cannot alone oppose this sentiment. One day, you may realize the wisdom of my words, though–likely after much suffering and torment."

"That may come to pass, Father," Taros Ranvok responded, "but I think that we may also achieve our enduring freedom through this battle. Then our people can return to their spiritual ways without the looming threat of the Witches. I respect your wisdom, but I see things differently than you do."

Pan Taros did not respond.

After many minutes passed, Hemlock saw Tored approach Safreon and Gwineval.

"I have briefed my officers on the battle doctrine of the wizards. Have you finalized the spellcraft for dealing with the Harvesters? Our ballistae will not be able to hold them all off at once," he asked.

"Yes, Gwineval has come up with an ingenious plan. We will meet the physical force of the Harvesters with an opposing physical force."

Tored nodded, apparently content with the general explanation and needing no additional details.

Hemlock then noticed flying Tanna Varran warriors circling in the sky over the Town, their silhouettes visible against the dark azure of the cloudless sky.

Several of them grouped together in flight and seemed to be communicating. Two of them then broke off from the group and started a hasty descent toward the platform where the King and the rest of the group were standing.

Hemlock had become familiar enough with the Tanna Varran wings in recent days that she could tell that the two warriors were descending at an urgent speed.

Something has happened.

The warriors landed with impressive dexterity. Hemlock could see that they both wore many blue feathers on their chests, denoting their status as officers.

"Come forward," instructed Taros Ranvok.

"Sire, a Witch horde has been sighted in the west, approaching yonder hill. They will be on us within a day," one of the officers reported excitedly.

"We must begin to deploy immediately," stated Tored loudly, turning to exit the platform.

"Sire?" asked the other officer who had not spoken, also seeming very anxious.

"Yes, is there more?" asked Taros Ranvok.

"Four Wizard Guild Harvesters have been sighted in the east at the fore of an army from the City. They are also less than one day from the town," related the officer.

Several sharp intakes of breath were heard in the intervening moments before Safreon broke the silence.

"It seems that our opponents have joined forces," he said.

"Impossible," said Gwineval "the wizards would never fight alongside the Witches. They are enemies."

"It would seem that they have identified a common purpose in our destruction," observed Tored.

Below the platform, the dances continued. Some had noticed the descent of the patrol officers and could see from the expressions on the faces of their leaders that something was amiss.

Taros Ranvok halted the ceremony and called all of the commanders into a meeting to discuss tactics.

Hemlock was nervous.

Can we defeat both the wizards and the Witch together? She wasn't feeling nearly as confident of victory as she had been prior to this latest news.

...

The Tanna Varran meeting hall was filled to capacity.

Mixed in with the people from the capital town of Tor Varnos were warriors from other towns, called to serve their people in this time of crisis. The meeting chamber, apparently planned for large gatherings like this, had large, open windows on the first floor, which could be completely retracted, giving the building the feel of an open air hall, and allowing the people outside to still hear clearly if the speaker was strong of voice.

Pan Taros, Taros Ranvok and Tored stood on the platform. Pan Taros looked ashen and his eyes were focused inward.

Hemlock stood close to the front of the stage, a position of honor. Beside her were Safreon and Gwineval. Merit was standing on a stairway which led up to the stage, near the spot they had stood during the encounter with the Witch that had recently occurred in this hall.

Hemlock saw Taros Ranvok rise and move to the front of the stage. She could see a change in him. He had effectively assumed leadership of the Tanna Varran tribes from his father. He seemed to be rising to that challenge rather than shrinking in the face of it. His demeanor was confident as he began to address the crowd.

"Welcome, Citizens. Warriors and civilians, I address you today in a time of war. My father, Pan Taros, has appointed me as temporary leader, to see us through this crisis. We look forward to a day when we can return to the path of gentle wisdom that he has set for us."

Taros Ranvok looked back at his father reverently, but Pan Taros did not recognize the gesture. Whether he was nonsensical or bitter was unclear to Hemlock.

"For now," continued Taros Ranvok, "the way before us is dark. Swords and spears will be our tools now."

"The Witches, our traditional enemies, have moved against us, killing the sister of our King. Long have they sat in their dark ziggurats, harvesting souls and growing in power. They must now feel that they can move against us without fear. In addition, it seems that they have entered into an alliance with the Wizard Guild from the City."

There was a stir in the crowd. "What of the outlanders? Aren't they responsible for this strife?" shouted a voice. Several others echoed similar sentiments.

There was a negative murmur from the crowd as Taros Ranvok gestured for quiet.

"It is true that the arrival of the outlanders has seemed to trigger these events. But I feel that it may be a blessing in disguise, for it has hastened a confrontation with the Witch, which I believe has been inevitable. It is better to face her now than ten years hence, when her power might be unopposable. Also consider that the Outlanders are great wizards and Warriors in their own right. The three of them slew a Mathi without any aid from us. In addition, they now bear a magic item of great power, which they plan to use against the wizards."

Some of the crowd was still not convinced. Cries continued like: "Why not give them to the wizards?" and "Why should we fight the wizards?"

Taros Ranvok motioned to Safreon. Hemlock turned and saw Safreon moving through the crowd toward the stairs which led to the stage. He gave Hemlock a reassuring nod as he passed. She could see that he carried something under his cloak.

Taros Ranvok continued to speak to the crowd. "Have you considered the wizards and their motives? They harvest souls from this land and bring the magical Oberon back to the City. They have a truce with the Witches, which by its mere existence, brings their motives into question. Did you think that they were your friends? After all, it is Wizard magic which originally created the veil and sundered our land from that of our ancestors. Do not question for a moment that the wizards have not been our enemies only because they view us as insignificant. Like the Witches, they lust for absolute power over the City and all the lands within the veil."

Safreon reached the side of the stage and Taros Ranvok waved him forward, as he spoke, "Behold, the Wand of the Imperator, an item which wields a magic as potent as that which bound our land to the City."

Safreon pulled the wand from his cloak and held it overhead. The molten fire within the glass head of the Wand seemed to surge for a moment as the Tanna Varrans beheld it.

A silence overcame the crowd then. The air in the hall seemed to take on a weight under the flickering brilliance of the magical fire within the Wand, almost as if it were some incendiary eye that held each man and woman rapt under its gaze.

A feeling of reverie had overcome Hemlock, and with her, seemingly much of the crowd. She felt insignificant in the presence of such a tangible power as the Wand.

"Remember, it is just a tool," she repeated to herself—words that Safreon had said more than once in the past few days when she had looked on the Wand.

Taros Ranvok spoke again, breaking the spell of the wand. "This is the power that has come to us–at precisely the time that we need it most. It is a power that can be used to defeat the Witch and repel the wizards. That is what we fight for, no less than the freedom of our people in the coming ages."

The crowd remained silent.

"The Witches and the wizards think that they will defeat us easily. They have little respect for our battle traditions. And they do not understand the power of the Outlanders and this Wand. We will meet them tomorrow in this valley, and great deeds will take place–deeds that will be written about and spoken of in future generations. Know that whatever happens, that you will not be forgotten; your bravery and your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And the children, our children, will live in a world that doesn't have to fear the Witches."

Hemlock saw Tored rise from his seat, behind Taros Ranvok. He strode forward to stand on the opposite flank of the young leader, beside Safreon.

Tored spoke then, his voice ringing out through the hall in a way that inspired Hemlock.

"It is time for war!" he proclaimed. Raising his arm high, with a balled fist, he continued, "Death to our enemies!"

The crowd gave a muted response at first.

"Death to our enemies!" repeated Tored.

The crowd roared in response this time.

"Death to our enemies!" cried Tored once more.

The crowd erupted in response.

Hemlock was astonished. She had been unsure of their motivation after hearing them speak at the beginning of the address, but it seemed to her that Taros Ranvok had convinced them.

How many of them will die tomorrow?

She noticed Gwineval looking equally grim. Their eyes met and his glance confirmed to her that they were both thinking the same thought.

A Tanna Varran beside Hemlock grasped her shoulder, clearly caught up in the passion of battle lust, for which Taros Ranvok had laid the kindling and Tored had fanned to a raging fire.

"My life for you and yours! But you must kill the Witch!" he cried.

"I will do my best," was the best response that Hemlock could manage to shout to the man, before he was swept away by a wave of motion in the crowd.

##  Chapter Twenty One

Tored, Taros Ranvok, Safreon and Gwineval had decided to split the Tanna Varran forces into two to face each of the approaching armies. Hemlock had been assigned to deploy with the Tanna Varran forces that were opposing the Wizard and City forces.

Hemlock fell into step with the rear rank of a Tanna Varran foot company as the unit moved forward. It had been decided that she would stay at the rear of this unit, which was positioned in the center of the field, because the Tanna Varrans had chosen to employ a tight formation that allowed them to use their spears to maximum effect against the Wizard and City forces. Hemlock needed some room to fight effectively with her sabres and was not used to fighting with a spear. She planned to engage the enemy in any area where the Tanna Varran lines lost cohesion. Her role was to be that of a roving fighter, moving to the point of critical need during the battle.

It had also been decided that the Tanna Varrans would try to engage the enemy no farther from the Town than the maximum effective range of their Ballistae, so that they could retreat under the Ballista's covering fire if need be.

The Tanna Varrans were walking forward resolutely to a preordained line, moving in advance of the approaching Wizard forces.

Slowly the Wizard units in front of Hemlock's unit gained in clarity. There was a large contingent of City Knights on foot in the front and middle of their line, flanked on each side by units of tattooed Wizard fighters. Behind these front lines, a unit of mounted knights rode alongside two lumbering Harvesters, whose great iron limbs glistened with morning dew. The Harvesters' joints groaned as they moved to and fro and their sound dominated the battlefield, taking on a terrifying aspect which seemed to shake the morale of the Tanna Varrans. Hemlock wondered if that sound had been magically enhanced, but she did not detect any evidence of that.  
Gwineval, who was at her side, hissed loudly to her. "Hemlock, can you see anything unusual in their lines?"

She was about to respond negatively when something did strike her as unusual. She detected a subtle magical vibration coming from the Harvesters directly ahead—in the center of the battle line. It was emanating from the sound that they made and it was not amplification magic like she had expected it to be, but magic of illusion.

"The Harvesters in their center are illusory I think," she shouted in response to Gwineval.

"All right!" Gwineval responded, alerting the Tanna Varran unit commanders that stood near him.

Hemlock looked at Gwineval and was nervous for him. She knew that he and Safreon were about to attempt magic that was on the very frontier of their abilities. She hoped that they knew what they were doing.

Hemlock continued to stride forward grimly. She could see that only a hundred yards or so separated the battle lines of the wizards and Knights and the Tanna Varrans.

Suddenly the two Harvesters ahead and the two units of First Circle Wizard troops flanking the center Knights took on a wavering appearance.

"The Wizard units in the center are illusion too!" hissed Gwineval loudly. "They are concentrating their forces at the flanks!"

"What should we do?" asked Hemlock, noting that the Knights on foot were moving to fill in the gap in their lines left by the illusory Wizard troops.

"You move to the left flank and I'll move to the right. We have to prevent them from turning our flanks," hissed Gwineval urgently. He nodded to her and turned, running toward the right flank.

Hemlock heard a great clash as the Tanna Varran foot soliders met the City knights. The Knights were initially held at bay by the wall of spears. Some Knights fell under the rain of spear thrusts, but some were able to dash into the Tanna Varran lines and initiate desperate swordplay with the lighter armored Tanna Varrans. The Tanna Varrans were disciplined, however, and their rear ranks supported the front and felled many knights as they broke through. The knights were inflicting significant casualties with their heavy swords though, which could not be turned by the lighter Tanna Varran armor.

Hemlock resisted an impulse to rush into the fray. She knew that she had to stay with the plan, but she wasn't used to leaving comrades to fight alone and not rushing to their aid.

Hemlock shook her head with resignation and turned and ran along the rear of the Tanna Varran lines toward the left flank.

She could see that the Harvesters there, now visible after being hidden by Wizard magic, were beginning to rain down terrible destruction on the Tanna Varran units there. Streams of fire emanated from the eyes and mouths of the two Harvesters, immolating many Tanna Varrans on the ground. Hemlock could see that the protective wards which Gwineval had cast on the Tanna Varrans were having some effect as she saw several fighters shrug off fire that should have left them horribly burned and continue to fight.

Hemlock could see the First Circle Wizard units engaged with the Tanna Varran line in front of her; these wizards were inflicting terrible losses against the foot soldiers as she got into position behind them on the edge of their forces. The First Circle wizards were obviously far more dangerous foes than the City Knights, although they were fewer in number.

Fortunately, the streams of fire jetting from the Harvesters had become less frequent. Looking up, she saw that hundreds of winged Lancers were engaging the Iron golems. They were flying around the huge heads and casting spears into the eyes and mouths of the Golems. The wizards suddenly switched their tactics and began to throw lightning bolts at the flyers.

The sound of thunderclaps resonated over the battlefield.

The flying Lancers were now taking terrible losses against the Harvesters, but Hemlock saw more than one Wizard fall from the heads of the lumbering giants, becoming victims of expert spear throws.

Hemlock paused for a moment and wondered, Is Falignus in one of these iron beasts? The gravity of the situation made her think of him more intensely for reasons that she didn't understand. Putting aside her thoughts, she sprinted toward the nearest fighting.

As Hemlock entered the fray, she felt oddly disconnected from herself. She had always felt motivated by some injustice when she had fought in the past. Now, things seemed so complicated that she was no longer sure exactly for whom or for what she fought.

But soon a Wizard was before her, his tattoos blazing as he launched into a series of thrusts, trying to slay her. Hemlock saw unmasked cruelty in that Wizard's eyes and it heartened her and rekindled her sense of justice and righteous indignation.

With a cry she stepped inside a fast, but clumsy thrust and slashed the man's throat. Running, she slashed out the hamstrings of another nearby Wizard and soon she was wreaking havoc amongst the Wizard ranks and the Tanna Varran troops near her were able to disengage and reform their ranks.

Fire began to rain down around Hemlock, singing her hair and burning her limbs. The magical resistance which Gwineval and Safreon had cast helped her resistance, but she still received several minor burns from glancing hits by streams of flame.

Hemlock heard a cry overhead and looked above her. She saw that the Tanna Varran flying Lancers had disengaged from the Harvesters, leaving the wizards in their great iron faces to begin to concentrate magical fire on the Tanna Varran ground units again.

Without a thought, she prepared to fly into battle against the Harvesters, but then a strange sound rang out over the battlefield from the opposite side of the Tanna Varran line in the direction that Gwineval had headed.

Waves of noise travelled over the battlefield, producing a strange echo and crackling effect which drowned out the groaning of the great iron limbs of the Harvesters and even the concussive fire streams that the wizards were casting from atop them.

_Gwineval is starting his casting_ , Hemlock realized, as she paused to look toward the right flank and searched for the serpentine Wizard.

Many other eyes also turned toward that sound and they beheld a green, misshapen form rising above the field in pulsating spasms of growth.

Hemlock gasped at the sight. To her, it seemed like she was watching the accelerated growth of some great primordial Lizard. She knew that it was Gwineval transforming himself, but the creature that writhed and cried out as it grew bore only a faint resemblance to him.  
The head had elongated and lost all trace of human origin. The upper limbs shortened proportionally, while the lower limbs grew thicker and more powerful. The jaws of the creature, which Hemlock now had difficulty thinking of as Gwineval, became huge and lined with serrated with teeth. In mere moments, the strange green creature had assumed the full height of a Wizard Guild Harvester.

The Tanna Varrans around her looked excited, but unsure about the creature that they now beheld.

"Press the advantage! Attack!" cried Hemlock.

Tanna Varran commanders soon joined Hemlock in the outcry to attack, and within moments the Tanna Varran fighters were moving forward and crashing into the enemy positions in front of them.

Hemlock returned her attention to the creature that had been Gwineval. She saw that it had scooped up some Tanna Varran warriors and eviscerated them in its mammoth jaws!

Alarmed, Hemlock began to run toward the creature, unsure what she would do when she arrived in its vicinity, but feeling a need to act.

But the wizards across the battlefield solved her problem for her. Not noticing that the great green beast had turned on its own troops, the wizards redirected all of their magical attacks against it.

They did not use fire any longer, but pale green beams which emanated from each Harvester and bathed the creature with a pale aura.

The creature cried out in anguish and began to shrink.

Hemlock halted in her tracks again as she saw the beast surging with a suffering rage and turning its attention to the nearest Harvester. With an inhuman gait, it charged and bowled into the huge iron figure, impacting its iron torso with its scaled head.

The Harvester reeled as it absorbed the shock of the impact from the lizard creature, and began to fall backward.

The Harvester crew tried to maintain its balance, but failed to do so despite a crude outstretch of the figure's massive iron arms. It fell backward onto the valley floor as the monstrous incarnation of Gwineval continued its charge, climbing up onto the prone torso of the Harvester and stomping down on it with its great muscled legs. Wizards were fleeing from the head as the huge lizard continued to pummel the inert figure of the disabled Harvester.

Hemlock had seen many wonders over the past days, but seeing what Gwineval had become was the most intense and scared her profoundly. This lizard creature was violently destructive and seemed chaotic. The mind of Gwineval had obviously been consumed by the ferocious rage of the reptile. She hoped that it was only temporary. What if it turned on the Tanna Varrans again? She had to hope that the wizards would continue to attack it.

And they did.

Green beams from the remaining Harvesters continued to bathe the creature in an unnatural light. It seemed to spasm from time to time, shrinking in pain, and then growing again as if fueled by its rage.

Screaming, the creature turned its attention to the second Harvester which was positioned near it.

Hemlock looked away from the spectacle and noticed that the Tanna Varrans before her were starting to gain the upper hand on the First Circle Wizard foot soldiers and City Knights.

There was a great crash from the center of the Tanna Varran battle line then. Hemlock could not fully see what was happening, but soon she was able to discern City lances and pennants above the heads of the Tanna Varrans. "The wizards must have committed the mounted Knights from their reserves," she concluded.

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 great, 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 feelings 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.

Hemlock's vision faded to black.

##  Chapter Twenty Two

Hemlock awoke.

She could hear shouting around her above a shrill ringing sensation in her ears. The last thing that she could remember was the strange vision that she had had of the otherworldly space and the aid that she had received somehow from distant entities in that space. Then she remembered her fatal strike on the Witch and the malicious energy wave that had resulted from the Witch's destruction.

The death of Taros Ranvok came back to her in a flash of pain and anguish. _Wait...is Tored still alive? Is Safreon still in control of that demon? And Gwineval..._ While his transformation had made her shudder, had he prevailed?

She then became conscious of her surroundings and realized that the sounds of frantic footfalls were all around her. She spat out a mouth full of dirt from a painful jaw and lifted her head to look around. Her entire body felt weak, her joints were swollen and her muscles ached acutely.

Tanna Varran warriors were sprinting past her while a few kneeled down to tend to her. She could hear reports that the Witch's forces were in full retreat and being routed.

"You did it!" a Tanna Varran exclaimed, "You killed the Witch!"

"Tored?" she managed to ask.

"Alive and recovering," the Warrior responded.

Hemlock heard a shrill, high pitched whine. It seemed to be emanating from the direction of the Town, whose upper levels were visible to Hemlock from her prone position.

"Something is happening," observed one of the Tanna Varrans, looking toward the noise.

Hemlock made to rise.

"Stay down," cautioned the Tanna Varran," you are too weak."

Ignoring him, Hemlock unsteadily rose and looked toward the town.

She immediately saw the chaotic mass of the creature that Safreon had been struggling with. It had swelled to such a height that it was almost touching the bottom level of the Town. The blue lattice of magical energy still enclosed it, but seemed to be weakening.

Hemlock saw the hideous mouths of the creature cry out in unison, producing the same high pitched whine that she had heard moments before.

As she began to run awkwardly toward the creature, intending to try and help Safreon but not entirely sure that she could, she wondered if Gwineval might be needed to battle this creature in addition to the Wizard Guild forces.

Looking toward the other side of the Town, she saw no sign of Gwineval's hulking, magically transformed body.

She considered using her wings to advance on the aberrant beast before her, but they felt odd on her back. When she tried to take off, she realized that they had been damaged at some point during her recent fighting. She unstrapped them as she ran. Dropping them eased her burden somewhat, enabling her to run faster. Still, she was struggling to maintain her balance, for she was greatly fatigued – more so than she could ever remember.

I must help Safreon, she thought to herself over and over again, urging herself on through the pain.

She finally neared the bluff where she had last seen Safreon. She could see the foul form of the creature more closely now. She fought back an urge to vomit, for the sight of the creature, along with the sensations provided by her sense of its innate magic, were intensely revolting to her.

Tanna Varrans were running past Hemlock toward the front line that opposed the forces of the Wizard Guild. Hemlock marveled at their apparent faith that she and Safreon would deal with the incredible creature which now was rising straight from the depths of some nether region and emerging right under their Town. Hemlock admired their discipline, for the appearance of the creature was terrible indeed.

She pushed forward through an assembling unit of Tanna Varran ground troops, and finally Safreon was visible.

Hemlock cried in alarm out when she saw him.

He was straining against some invisible force, which was drawing him slowly, but inexorably toward the blue magical barrier and the many gaping maws of the mysterious creature held within. Safreon held the Wand of the Imperator extended before him, directed toward the creature; the Wand still emitted the blue lattice of energy which restrained the inchoate and undulating amalgamation of mismatched limbs and orifices.

Safreon struggled against the Wand and pulled at it, attempting to resist whatever force it was that seemed to draw it toward the creature. His features were contorted in pain and his face was like a choppy sea, awash in waves of anguish. But Hemlock detected calmness about him as well, as if the pain was flowing over and through him, without perturbing some bastion of inner peace.

Hemlock then saw that Gwineval was struggling beside Safreon. He had apparently returned to his more mundane form, and his bared muscles (for he wore no clothing), awash in green scales, flexed as he grasped at the Wand and appeared to Hemlock to try to pull it toward himself.

Hemlock approached the scene as quickly as she could, in what amounted to a half sprint, half stagger.

She saw Gwineval arch his back in effort as he struggled even more mightily to wrest the Wand of the Imperator away from the pull of the creature. Safreon was pulled slightly toward Gwineval in the struggle and Hemlock could see his face even more clearly. She also noticed that Safreon was still being drawn toward the thrashing creature that was held within the blue lattice even though Gwineval seemed to have slowed the progress of the Wand toward the giant creature.

"Gwineval, NO! HELP SAFREON!" Hemlock shouted, shocked to see that Gwineval seemed more interested in saving the Wand than Safreon. But she was too far away and the din of the battlefield was too great for either of them to hear her cries.

A single thought entered Hemlock's mind then, as she desperately tried to close the distance between her and her struggling mentor, Safreon.

Looking at Gwineval she thought one word: Traitor.

Safreon slumped to his knees, somehow maintaining a hold on the Wand despite the pull of the creature, against which his resistance seemed to falter. He maintained his odd outward appearance of intense pain mixed with stoic detachment.

The blue energy that flowed out of the Wand now seemed to lose focus. It began to flow around and over, and then behind Safreon, enclosing him within the magical blue force field.

She saw Gwineval yell something at Safreon and then he stretched his serpentine leg and placed it on Safreon's chest.

Why doesn't he resist? Hemlock wondered desperately.

With a great kick, Gwineval wrested the Wand from Safreon, sending the suffering Alchemist tumbling backwards into the blue lattice and finally into the mass of the writhing creature of chaos.

"NO!" cried Hemlock.

Gwineval had extended an arm and had attempted to grasp Safreon, but had quickly cried out in pain and recoiled, as the blue fire burned him badly.

Hemlock could see that Safreon was burning alive in that blue fire, yet he did not move. He lay completely still even as the burning tendrils of the chaos beast tore flesh from his own burning body.

Gwineval raised his arms and the fire in the tip of the wand shone brightly. The blue rays halted and yellow beams burst forth from the Wand and enveloped the blue lattice, and within that, the chaos creature and Safreon.

Slowly, under that dazzling light, the blue lattice and the two forms within it began to fade. The creature cried its shrill whine several more times, each one sounding more disembodied.

Hemlock was getting closer to Gwineval, stressing her remaining endurance to the limits with her limping run.

"Gwineval, stop!" she cried.

Gwineval, hearing her, turned his head toward her for a moment, but quickly returned his attention to directing the intense yellow rays of the Wand toward the blue lattice.

And then the dazzling light faded with a resounding pop and the blue lattice was gone. The chaos creature and Safreon were also gone.

Safreon is dead.

Some part of her mind registered this fact. She halted and stood, in a daze, as Tanna Varran warriors continued to rush past her. Her mind reeled under the impact of Safreon's death.

Her consciousness, clinging to violent impulses like a drowning man does a life raft, focused on Gwineval then.

Hemlock saw that he was on his knees, weakly trying to rise.

She limped forward.

"Gwineval, you are a TRAITOR!" she cried as loudly as she could, with a tinge of madness in her voice.

...

Falignus leaned out of the window, fully exposing his face to the open air of the battlefield. He could smell a scent of sulfur and ozone in the air which resulted from the magical torrents of fire that he had been directing for many minutes now. He stood in the eye socket of the only remaining Wizard Guild Harvester.

The wind in his face felt oddly reassuring as he took stock of the progress of the battle. The Witch had apparently perished and her ghostly horde had retreated in disarray. Thus a long standing ambition of the Wizard Guild had been fulfilled. Falignus had heard a rumor pass through the ranks that the Witch had been slain by the young girl named Hemlock. Falignus found this concept both amazing and unsurprising at the same time. He had suspected that this girl was descended from an ancient blood line like the one that he believed also ran in his veins. His dark prescient rituals had convinced him of her power and great destiny. In any case, if she was responsible for the death of the Witch, Hemlock's action had unwittingly advanced the designs of the Seventh Circle and by extension the Wizard Guild as a whole.

But, weighing the import of his concerns, Falignus considered that Gwineval had brought an incredible level of power to bear against the Guild during the battle. While in his transformed state, he had destroyed three Guild harvesters and a great many wizards had died by his hand. Many City forces had also perished, and worse yet, those that had survived had witnessed the inability of the Guild to resist Gwineval's onslaught.

"That is a decisive setback for us. Somehow we must recover our appearance of invulnerability. At least Gwineval is also known to be a Wizard himself," Falignus thought grimly.

His thoughts then returned to the tasks at hand and soon he was directing the lurching Harvester to move toward the Tanna Varran town to investigate something that had just happened nearby: Gwineval's transformative magic had suddenly waned and he had retreated to the Tanna Varran Town in haste. Falignus had seen a great demonic creature there, struggling against magical wards. And then suddenly the creature had been enveloped by a scintillating vortex of light and dispelled.

It must be related to Gwineval's transformation. This must be the magical force that I foresaw. But what was the source of it?

He paused for a moment and hummed a phrase while moving his arms rhythmically. Then he touched his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, his sight was enhanced. He quickly focused in on the scene near the base of the town.  
He could see Gwineval there, holding an item that made him gasp aloud.

"A Wand of the Imperator," he whispered aloud.

This explained much to the now brooding Wizard.

Regaining his composure quickly, Falignus called down into the torso of the Harvester, where several subordinate wizards were stationed and busy controlling the Harvester and providing spell casting energy to Falignus.

"Kraven! I am sending our forces forward to attempt to retrieve an item from the Tanna Varrans and Gwineval," called Falignus, his voice echoing within the iron interior, "Leave the Harvester and survey the battlefield from above."

Here Falignus paused, for he knew what he should order Kraven to focus on: the Wand of the Imperator, borne by Gwineval. But something within him was arguing for a different order altogether, an order that seemed to fly in the face of reason. Before he knew what he was doing, Falignus made to issue the latter order to Kraven.

Kraven stood across from Falignus, waiting expectantly beside the other great eye socket.

"Look for a young girl. She is beautiful and deadly. She is likely to be gravely wounded, though. She is not a Tanna Varran, but is from the City. See if you can locate and capture her and bring her to me: alive."

Kraven nodded and turned toward the battlefield. His magically modified wings extended, and with a great leap, he exited the Harvester.

Falignus watched as Kraven's gray wings, which appeared to be a part of his body and were shaped like those of a hawk, unfurled and quickly bore him high above the battle and beyond the Tanna Varran scouts that sought to intercept him with their own artificial wings.

Turning his attention back to the battle below, Falignus turned to a crystal ball filled with a clear liquid that was mounted in the hull beside him.

Concentrating, he scryed with the Wizard Malvert, his ground force commander, and ordered his forces forward toward the Tanna Varran town.

"I have a company reformed and in reserve. We will attack immediately," responded Malvert confidently, though Falignus could see that the strain of battle was weighing on the leader of the First Circle.

Falignus shook his head. All the companies of wizards had been routed by Gwineval when he was transformed into that great beast. If he were able to do that again now, the wizards would surely be defeated. Falignus suspected that the Demon that he had seen had been related to that magical transformation, however, because the power of Gwineval's transformation spell had clearly been so great. Since the Demon was gone, Falignus felt confident that Gwineval would not be able to cast that spell again.

"I hope I am correct," he thought grimly.

Falignus soon realized that the Harvester was getting dangerously close to the Tanna Varran town and their siege engines. He had intended to have the wizards bombard the town from a distance once they gained control of the battlefield, but the events of the day had changed that plan. Falignus halted the Harvester.

In a few moments after the lumbering iron golem stopped, the reformed company of First Circle wizards passed around and under it and advanced on the Tanna Varran town and into and through the front lines of the battle, achieving a breakthrough. A unit of Tanna Varran lancers quickly descended from the upper levels of the Town and engaged the Wizard company.

Falignus could see that the melee was intense, with many casualties on both sides. The wizards were showering the air with jets of fire and leaping impossibly high with their magic and pulling unwary Lancers from the air. But the Lancers were brave and well trained. They were able to use their spears to great effect, both in a hovering melee tactic and also as a thrown weapon.

Drawing power from the wizards below him, Falignus directed several lightning bolts at the flying lancers. Some missed, for the distance was considerable and Falignus still did not dare advance the sole remaining Harvester within range of the Tanna Varran siege engines. Some of the lightning bolts impacted the flying soldiers, often damaging their wings or knocking them unconscious and causing them to crash to the earth.

"Damn Gwineval's protective spells," Falignus cursed under his breath, "our magic should be routing them."

Suddenly, down on the battlefield, a bright and forking stream of lightning began to wash over Malvert's Wizard company from the Tanna Varran rear, incinerating wizards wherever it passed. It was intermittent and erratic, but even so, it was devastating the front of the Wizard formation.

Quickly casting his visual enhancement magic again, Falignus surveyed the scene and saw Gwineval wielding the Wand of the Imperator and blasting his wizard troops with the lightning, which did not relent, but thundered over and over again under his keen direction. The once human wizard looked uncertain wielding the Wand, yet he was still using it decisively.

Falignus, cursing to himself, scanned the front of the wizard ranks for Malvert. He could not find him. Then Falignus spotted part of an ornamental crimson battle robe lying on the ground amongst bodies and body parts. He knew that the robe had been Malvert's. It was clear to Falignus that the veteran warrior and wizard had finally met his demise.

He was about to issue an order to retreat when he noticed a slightly built, hunched form near Gwineval, shuffling forward resolutely, but clearly wounded. Looking closer, he could see that it was a young woman.

_Hemlock_ , he thought, and his pulse quickened even beyond the fever pace at which it roared within him in this moment of great stress.

He knew that he had to order a retreat, but he searched the sky for Kraven, hoping that his minion had also spotted the young girl. Falignus considered that Hemlock could probably easily slay Kraven if she was at full strength. But he quickly saw that his gamble had paid off; Hemlock clearly was far worse for wear after her battle with the Witch. Kraven would probably be able to overpower her.

Falignus spotted a winged form then, locked in a steep dive.

"Kraven has seen her!" muttered Falignus.

He saw that the winged Wizard had chosen his trajectory well, for he intercepted Hemlock directly and delivered a blow to her head. Falignus cringed at the ferocity of that blow and hoped that Hemlock wasn't hurt badly by it. But the blow had clearly been effective, for he could see Kraven's wings beating furiously in a climb, the limp form of the young girl cradled within his arms.

Some Tanna Varran lancers made an attempt to intercept Kraven, but his rate of climb was superior to theirs, as was his speed. He was returning to the Harvester and would clearly outpace any reaction by the Tanna Varrans.

Refocusing himself, Falignus scryed with a subordinate commander and sounded the retreat.

Looking again with his magically enhanced vision, he spotted Gwineval again. The Wizard looked frail and extended beyond all endurance, yet his eyes burned. He was looking directly at the Harvester, as it turned in retreat. There was a determined defiance in Gwineval's eyes, the image of which remained with Falignus for many hours afterwards.

"Gwineval, your ambition has exceeded my expectations. But don't doubt that we shall meet again," Falignus muttered under his breath.

# BOOK THREE

## Chapter Twenty Three

Hemlock recalled that as she had lost consciousness, her world had faded to white. It had felt like she had been consumed by light and fullness. She had felt completely at peace–if only for a fleeting instant of time.

But the white light had slowly taken on a painful hue. Her head had begun to throb. Her eyes had fluttered and then sprung open to a painful reality.

She became aware that she lay prone on a padded bench and was bound securely. Through a window the setting sun was shining in her eyes as she tried to ascertain her surroundings. She was bound by magical bonds which sizzled with spell force and burned her skin where they came in contact with it. She attuned to the spells restraining her and recognized wizard magic. The spells were strong and she was not confident that she could break them in her current weakened condition.

She then became conscious of a repeating, lurching motion which shook the entire chamber within which she lay; the walls of the chamber were oddly curved and she noted that the two windows were oddly shaped ovals. She recognized, after a time, that the oval windows were crafted in the shape of huge eyes and that the walls were the angles of a human face as it would appear if viewed from the inside.

She realized with a start that she must be inside the head of a Wizard Guild harvester golem.

A figure was seated at a control panel in front of her.

"You awaken," stated the figure, and even in her painful condition she felt a connection with the voice that she heard. She recognized the voice; it was the voice of the wizard Falignus.

Hemlock did not respond–her head was still swimming from the battle, her wounds, the betrayal of Gwineval, and the death of Safreon and Taros Ranvok.

"We're returning to the City, Hemlock. You need not reply to me. I know that you are wounded," continued Falignus with an air of casual conversation.

"You will stay with me as my guest for a time. I must spend some time with you. You were fortunate to survive your encounter with the Witch. Is it true that you killed her? No need to answer, again, but I know that it likely is true. And," here Falignus paused as if reflecting, "I suppose that it shows some measure of your power that you did survive. We must discuss at some length the way in which you killed the Witch. I had suspected that she had a vulnerability, and I venture to guess that you must have figured that out, too."

Hemlock was in pain, but still she made the effort to speak. "Guest or Prisoner?" she said, managing to expel some air from her lungs with great effort.

"Please Hemlock, don't be rude," Falignus responded, sounding almost petulant.

"Oh, and I'm sorry about the magical bonds. My wizards insisted on them over my objections. You have demonstrated great power, so I understand their concern for my safety," he continued, seemingly oblivious to Hemlock's pointed question.

Hemlock felt a crushing sensation of renewed fatigue and numbness wash over her. It was both emotional and physical in nature. She welcomed blackness as it descended over her, mercifully consuming her consciousness.

_All is lost_ , was her final thought.

...

The blackness faded, giving way to pain.

Hemlock was cowering in the corner of a small chamber, the walls of which seemed to ooze around her, their stone and mortar contorting into terrifying nightmare images.

Do I dream?

She started to feel more alert, and the suspicion that she was dreaming started to dissipate.

The nightmarish visions were soon replaced with some semblance of waking clarity, but her surroundings still twisted and contorted in a dreamlike way.

On one end of the small chamber, there was a shimmering and scintillating wall of energy.

She suddenly remembered her brief conversation with Falignus in the Harvester.

I am in the Wizard Tower.

After a while the strange environment started to weigh on Hemlock. She felt hazy and almost insubstantial in the dreamlike environment. She became aware of a loud noise that surrounded her and sounded like a slow heartbeat mixed with the steady rush of fluid. Recalling her prior trip through the Wizard Tower with Gwineval, she wondered if this was the noise of the Oberon pipeline which she knew ran alongside the prison chamber that they had briefly visited when she had escaped with Gwineval.

Is that where I am – in the prison room?

This sound, which might have been comforting on its own, was soon punctuated by cries of anguish and inchoate babbling. Some nearby voices muttered insane nonsense, while others made animalistic noises or spouted gibberish.

The cumulative effect of these voices was nightmarish, made even more so by Hemlock's magical awareness. She knew that she was surrounded by magic that was crafted to be repressive and dispiriting. Even though she was aware of the nature of the magic, she was not immune from its effects.

She began to despair and to wonder if Falignus would ever remove her from this terrible place. She also began to think thoughts that made her feel less than human. She was tempted to offer Falignus anything to escape a fate of living in this chamber. She wondered if she might turn into a feral animal like the other denizens, if left here long enough.

She managed to sleep a little and found that waking in the same place again was even worse–for she had dreamt of the Warrens and of Safreon in happier times. She had dreamt of her old life. It made for a cruel awakening.

Just as her despair seemed to be becoming unbearable, she perceived the distinct sound of a door opening and then she heard some footsteps approaching her.

Hemlock saw Falignus approaching her cell, his elegance of form and the promise of relief of her suffering seeming like a symphony in which each of his steps was a movement. His gait seemed quixotic to her, rising to a crescendo as he stood before the wall of energy that separated them, and regarded her warmly.

His face was illuminated by the energy field, and was striking in its contrast with the darkness of the hall behind him, which seemed like it was a hundred yards away to Hemlock, even though it was mere footsteps.

"I'd like to get you out of this dismal place," he began.

Hemlock did not respond, a sudden burst of pride restraining her desire to cry out for mercy.

"We needed some time to prepare some," here he paused, "proper accommodations for you."

"A suitable prison cell?" Hemlock responded with a rasping voice, her mouth painfully dry.

Falignus shook his head with disappointment. "You persist in casting your visit in the most unpleasant light. Remember that only a few weeks ago you sought to enter here, and did so at great risk to yourself. Now you are here again and apparently wish to be gone." He chuckled. "It is ironic."

The energy field spat out a lick of energy that burnt Hemlock as she began to move toward Falignus.

Falignus waived his hand and the energy field was gone, along with much of the dispiriting effect.

"Again, I apologize," he stated, entering into the cell to help Hemlock to rise.

She did not resist his help, and soon was standing uncertainly.

She looked into his eyes, so close to hers, and more substantial than they had been in her dream state where she had first spoken to him. They were a piercing blue with flecks of gold. She marveled at the fact that they were just like her own.

He appeared to be studying her eyes as well.

"Interesting," he muttered.

Then grasping her more fully, he instructed her, "Come with me."

She was happy to oblige, wanting nothing more at that moment than to leave that chamber. She remembered many things suddenly, many sorrows and worries. She had been so preoccupied with her torment, that she had found it easy to forget them. She realized that she was trading one form of torment for another.

Still, she continued to shuffle along with Falignus; and they were soon joined by several other wizards, who escorted her past the other cells and the wails of the imprisoned, and out of the chamber.

...

Hemlock awoke again in a more hospitable environment. She lay in a large four poster bed which was topped with an ornate upper panel. Fine white linens adorned the bed and were tethered to the posts in readiness to be extended to protect against drafts. The bed itself was skillfully beveled and contained drawers in the base for storage.

The room was not large, but it was warmly accented with the same mahogany that she had first seen in the foyer of the Wizard Tower. Here, burgundy drapes and rugs helped to soften the look of the wood and contributed to the room's comparatively inviting atmosphere.

Hemlock only dimly remembered being led here by Falignus. A female Wizard had helped her with a bath and she had changed into a borrowed dress which fit her reasonably well.

Hemlock looked down at the crème colored dress, and felt foolish. She had rarely worn a dress before, for she only owned a single one, and it was reserved for formal occasions.

She wondered how long she had slept.

Going to the window, she saw that it was early evening in the City. She was not surprised to see a detectable dweomer covering the surface of the window pane. Clearly the wizards had taken some precaution against her escape.

Using her magical affinity, Hemlock felt resistance in a number of rapidly changing guises. They were changing so rapidly that she could not lock in on any particular one. She noted, chagrined, that this was an effective counter to her powers.

Looking out the window and ignoring the faint haze of the magic spell that enclosed her, she noted that her room faced East and the view looked out toward the Senate building and Hemisphere Lake, the latter being the geographic center of the City. Beyond the Senate building, she could see the whitewashed buildings of the Elite district, bathed in a cozy glow from a myriad of torches, which were reflected attractively on the surface of the lake.

Her body felt reasonably good, as if most of her wounds from the recent battle had been healed. Looking inward, she still felt numb from recent events.

She wondered after her sister, with a pang of guilt.

She had been so wrapped up in the drama of recent events, that she had spared precious little thought as to the well-being of her sibling.

Her thoughts turned then to her mentor, Safreon, whom she had watched burn alive in the blue magical field. She still hadn't fully registered the extent of her loss and could easily imagine that he might still be out there in the world, seeking to win her freedom from the Tower.

_He's gone_ , she tried to reason to herself.

But something inside of her simply would not let go of that lingering image of him as her rescuer.

Thinking of Safreon, she began to sob quietly.

"Why did Gwineval take the Wand from him and let him fall into the fire?" she raged, grasping at a post of the bed and pulling on it violently before gaining control of herself.

Her thoughts were turning dark and she instinctively reached for her sabres–but her hands felt only the delicate fabric of her dress at her waist.

Cursing, she sat down hard on the bed and brooded.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called, deciding against responding with only a recalcitrant silence.

Falignus entered the room. Hemlock's view was drawn again to his eyes, and their gold flecks. Her gaze then moved to his pronounced cheek bones and chin and his generous lips. Despite his slight pallor, he was very attractive and looked imperial in a long black cloak and gray pants, secured at the waist with a bright red sash.

"I trust that you slept well," he inquired.

"Yes, I did, quite well, compared to that dismal cell."

"Yes, that was, as I said, an unfortunate necessity."

"What of the magic that guards over me now, is that more of the same?" she asked darkly.

"Indeed it is. I'm sure that if you put yourself in our shoes, that you would do the same. I trust that it is proving effective?"

"I don't know, I haven't tried to escape yet," she countered.

"Ah yes," he replied distractedly, "do let me know how that goes when you try it."

Moving closer to her, he engaged her in direct eye contact, which she met defiantly.

"I'd like to ask you about certain recent events, which might prove somewhat uncomfortable for you to recount."

"Fine," she said, looking away.

"Did you, in fact, kill the Witch?"

"Yes."

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you kill her?"

Hemlock was numb inside and saw no point in withholding the information that he asked for. Although she was in a black mood and almost didn't care what she told Falignus, something inside of her restrained her from mentioning her out of body experience while battling the Witch.

"I was broken and the Witch was gloating over me. As she leaned in close, her forked tongue was lolling about in triumph. I mustered enough strength to sever her tongue and it killed her."

Falignus smiled and nodded.

"Yes, I suspected as much. I always wondered why her tongue alone marred her perfect features. I think she became too enamored of her own voice and concentrated too much power in it and in her tongue. When you severed it, it destroyed that power and she could not maintain her form without it."

Hemlock did not respond.

Falignus, his good humor blunted by Hemlock's impassive response, paused. "How do you feel about Gwineval?"

"I intend to kill him," she replied.

"Is that so? Is there a reason?"

"Yes, my mentor and friend," here she paused, trying not to choke up with grief, "Safreon... Gwineval caused his death by stealing that Wand."

"The Wand of the Imperator," Falignus stated.

"Yes."

"So your friend Safreon had the Wand of the Imperator?"

"Apparently."

"You say apparently. Didn't you know?"

"I knew once we got to that Tanna Varran town. Tor Varnos is what they call it. Anyway, I knew at that point. He never used it in my presence prior to that."

A responsible part of Hemlock's mind stirred and started to consider how much she should tell Falignus.

_But what does it matter now?_ She just didn't care enough to conceal anything.

_I don't care if the wizards kill every Tanna Varran alive, as long as I kill Gwineval_ , she thought and then felt guilty for thinking it. The Tanna Varrans had been fair and honorable, and she knew that they didn't deserve to die.

"Did this rogue wizard Safreon use the Wand of the Imperator to achieve the transformation that Gwineval used against us on the battlefield?"

"Yes."

Falignus was silent for a few minutes. He sat in an armchair and gestured for her to sit.

She shook her head negatively, moved to the window, and looked out over the Elite district again.

"Hemlock," he said, breaking the silence. Hemlock noted a certain weight to his voice that was different from before.

Looking at him, she noted that he wore a self-deprecating smile.

"Do you know that I find you enchanting?" he asked.

A certain part of her, a downtrodden and careworn part, thrilled at his words. But she felt the weight of death on her shoulders–so many deaths.

"It doesn't matter."

"Forgive me, you are in mourning. My remark was inappropriate," he replied formally, the weighty tone gone from his voice.

"We will see to your needs here. Request anything that you wish," he said as he made for the door.

"How long will you hold me here?" she asked, suddenly thinking about the future again.

Falignus paused in stride. Not turning, he responded. "Until we both determine what path we will walk, and whether those paths will be the same or different."

"I have a relative in the Warrens – could I get word to her?" Hemlock asked.

Falignus turned. "If you refer to your sister, then relax in the knowledge that she is safe."

Hemlock cast a questioning glance at him.

"In the dream, when I came to you, you had a portrait with her. I subsequently inquired after her and discovered that she was gravely ill. I have seen to it that she has received care and is now doing well."

Hemlock was stunned. She was grateful, but realized that this gave him leverage over her.

"You had no right to intrude," she ventured unconvincingly.

"She would have died had I not."

Hemlock turned to the window, as tears rolled down her cheek.

She heard the door click closed behind her and knew that she was alone.

It was clear to her that Falignus was attempting to get close to her. She welcomed it on some level, for she felt a primal bond with him and an undeniable attraction.

But what are his ulterior motives?

...

The next day, again in the evening, Falignus returned to her. Knocking on the door, he entered at Hemlock's response.

"I'd like to take you on a tour of the Tower today," he informed her.

"I've already seen it."

"This time will be different; you won't have to sneak around."

"Sounds boring," she replied lightly, surprising herself with her tone, which she hadn't intended to be playful, yet had sounded so to her ear.

"Undoubtedly, but at least it will punctuate the boredom of remaining in this chamber all day."

"True enough. I accept."

"Good, then follow me, please."

Hemlock found his formality oddly endearing.

They exited into the hall, and Hemlock was surprised at the lack of escort.

Falignus was quick to notice her observation. "Don't worry, I've taken precautions."

"Of course," she answered.

He smiled at her and she was surprised at how becoming his smile was. His features were normally beautiful, but cold and cast in a slight pallor. When he smiled, however, it bathed his features in a pleasing warmth.

He led her down a hall to an arched entry to a stairwell. They descended several floors and exited into another corridor.

"We will follow a group of initiate wizards today, as they tour the Tower and receive their orientation," Falignus explained, as they walked down the corridor and entered an ornate audience chamber. It was a vaulted room finished in polished marble and granite, making an impression on Hemlock that it was designed to intimidate visitors. Support columns, which ran the length of the hall in two rows, were adorned with sculpted statues of wizards. Falignus and Hemlock had entered via a side entrance, but Hemlock saw that the visitor to the hall had to approach through a far door and walk forward between the two rows of statues and under the unseeing gaze of the stone wizards, who gave the illusion of standing guard like wizened sentinels.

Gathered in the chamber were half a dozen young teenagers, several years younger than Hemlock. They all wore uniform gray robes, which differed greatly from the festooned robes worn by the other wizards.

They had been talking amongst themselves, but stopped instantly once they saw Falignus approaching.

Hemlock saw a few furtively glance her way, but they did not dare to look for more than an instant, with a powerful Wizard in the room with them. Their eyes were soon all reverently downcast.

In a few moments, another Wizard entered the room; an old, overweight, bookish type, with what Hemlock thought was a cruel cast to his features. He ventured a withering look at Hemlock before bowing obsequiously to Falignus.

In an overloud voice he exclaimed, "We are joined today by our Lord, Falignus, head of the Seventh Circle and leader of the Guild."

A student looked up at Falignus, awestruck.

"Avert your gaze!" shouted the fawning old Wizard, brandishing a wooden wand threateningly.

"That's not necessary, Grubbins," chided Falignus, but the older Wizard did not seem deterred and cast several condescending looks at the young wizards.

Grubbins informed the students, Hemlock and Falignus that he would lead them upwards through each level of the Tower, explaining that each floor had a laboratory, living quarters and a common area, as well as a library and a workshop.

The students were shown the first floor only briefly. Hemlock imagined that the First Circle was in disarray after the costly battle at Tor Varnos, and the brevity of the tour of that floor confirmed her suspicions.

Grubbins made it a point, however, to stress to the student wizards that service in the First Circle was "...amongst the most honorable in the Tower, suited to the more adventurous mind and hardy constitution."

They returned to the hall on the first floor, and then climbed the central stair to the second floor. Hemlock still felt that the foyer was oppressive. Seeing the Tower under these circumstances felt odd to her after her initial experiences there.

They entered the library on the second floor, and this time the young wizards were given a more lengthy description of the Second Circle.

Grubbins showed the students some of the core tomes of Second Circle study, which was focused on using magic to automate tasks and perform construction.

One student asked what Hemlock judged to be a particularly insightful question, and Grubbins turned red with anger, for he clearly was overmatched by the young student and was greatly embarrassed.

As Grubbins started to reprimand the student, Falignus quickly intervened and began a brief lecture on the topic, commanding the undivided attention of everyone in the room.

Soon, he had asked everyone present to engage in a small experiment.

Hemlock watched Falignus as he interacted with the young wizards, giving them pointers on technique as he made his way along the tables where they worked. He was often caustic and sometimes harsh with the students, but there was always an underlying compassion which tempered the vitriol. Some students colored when he challenged them, but none protested or complained, for each seemed to feel that he ultimately had their best interest at heart.

A student of slight stature approached Falignus and his retinue then. The student was carrying a tall stack of books which obscured his vision, and he did not see the group in front of him, nor the important personage it contained. As the student neared, Grubbins, standing with Falignus, verbally lashed out at the young initiate Wizard. "Halt and make way, you insolent buffoon!" he cried.

"Wait," interrupted Falignus, restraining Grubbins and gesturing for everyone to make way for the overburdened student instead.

The student, pale with fear, made his way past at the insistent behest of Falignus, and Hemlock was amazed that he didn't drop his books in the process.

At this display, Grubbins turned to Falignus . "Sire, you are the head of the Seventh Circle! It is beneath your station to yield to this Initiate."

Falignus shook his head. "There is the matter of station, but in this situation, one simply had to respect the load with which this young man was burdened."

"As you wish," Grubbins replied uncomfortably.

Hemlock smiled to herself.

This is why people respect him.

...

The tour culminated at the sixth floor, for Grubbins explained that the Seventh Circle was forbidden to any but those who were members of it.

Falignus bid Grubbins and the initiate wizards farewell and asked Hemlock to join him on the Seventh Floor.

"I have a memory of those stairs," she said, pointing upwards, "which I have no desire to renew."

"Don't worry, that is a ward which I will disable before we pass."

They approached the stairs, and Falignus dispelled the spell as he had promised to do. Hemlock was able to climb undeterred to the upper atrium.

Again Hemlock was reminded of her prior experiences here, when Gwineval, Safreon and she had first fought the wizards openly.

The atrium had apparently been repaired, for its beautiful glasswork was restored. The great machine which she had destroyed, however, still appeared to be under repair.

Falignus nodded toward that machine. "It will take some time to fix. Your mission was all too successful."

Hemlock shook her head, amazed at how radically her perspective had changed in the space of just one fortnight.

Falignus strode toward an Eastern door, which they then exited through onto an outer balcony, which had a similar view to Hemlock's room, but was more beautiful because it was higher and unobstructed.

The view was breathtaking to Hemlock. They were facing east toward the Elite districts. Many people in white robes could be seen moving about. In the Warrens she knew that there would be less activity now; the elderly, most women and children would be indoors during the more dangerous evening.

But the Elites apparently did not live with this daily fear of violence and crime.

"What do you see Hemlock?" asked Falignus.

"I see a bunch of lucky people down there." she replied pointing.

Falignus turned to her with a piqued expression. "Yes, perhaps they are, but I see more than that. I find that this perspective reveals another reality. Most of the people walking around on the street, they don't see views like this – let alone understand them. They see the world from their own perspective and nothing more."

Hemlock sounded skeptical in her reply, "I think sometimes they are aware of more than you think."

Falignus replied with an air of forced benevolence. "Oh, they do have a sort of collective insight, but more often than not, that insight is colored by whatever fragments of information they hear about larger matters–and usually opinions are formed in a very limited context."

Hemlock grunted noncommittally and shrugged.

"When I stand out here on the top of the Tower, I really understand that we wizards are making decisions for the mass of these people. It is a great responsibility and sometimes it is an unpopular duty. The Tower, in a way, is more than symbolic. It reminds you, in a very visceral way, that your perspective has to be different. That you have to rise above the petty concerns of the individual and consider the good of the collective."

Hemlock looked sharply at him. "Is that what you think you are engaged in, then? Looking after the good of the collective?"

"Absolutely," he replied.

"And in doing so, you're not concerned that you are depriving the people of their basic freedoms?"

"Freedoms? The Elites lead strictly regimented lives – all magic is regulated. Let's walk around the atrium and look at the Warrens by comparison. They have free will – and look what they've done with it. They live in an environment that is rife with deception and crime. They have to be restrained like animals."

"Am I an animal?" Hemlock asked angrily.

"Of course not, but you are unique, Hemlock."

"Safreon always told me that freedom is the most important thing – it is the thing that makes humans human. If you make people less than free – isn't that what makes them animals?"

"No! Your old master was misguided. Being human is being happy and leading a full life. You can achieve that within a framework of rules. That's what society and government are for!" Falignus replied hotly.

"I don't think so," Hemlock replied mildly.

"I'm sorry that I lost my temper."

"I think you would know more if you spent more time in the street than up here. I think that this perspective could be a hindrance to you rather than a boon."

He smiled at her remark. "Hemlock, this is why I need you," he replied, turning toward her.

"Join me and rule the Guild at my side. Together we could accomplish so much. We could even implement some policies that your old master Safreon would approve of. You can influence me and balance me. I think he would approve," urged Falignus.

"I'm not so sure about that," she replied.

"Think about it, that's all that I ask," he said, looking into her eyes passionately.

She held his gaze for a time, and then moved away and returned to the eastern parapet, gazing over the lake and the beautiful Elite district again.

"Come, let us return. I have given you enough to ponder for one day, I'm sure," Falignus said after a few moments.

##  Chapter Twenty Four

Falignus sat at the council table and looked over the current members that comprised the leaders of the Wizard Guild. Since the recent battle where the wizards had confronted Gwineval and captured Hemlock, Falignus had been coming to grips with the fact that the leadership of the Guild was now crippled. During that battle Malvert, former leader of the First Circle, and Arcos, former leader of the Fourth Circle, had been lost. Falignus was coming to realize more and more just how much he had relied on the council and independent ability of these two fallen leaders.

Of the remaining council members, Jalis was, in the estimation of Falignus, an ambitious fool and Colberth was conservative to a fault. Gwineval's former ally, the Wizard Miara, was now reduced to little more than brooding as she came to grips with the fact that the Crimson Order was now pre-eminent; she was of little use as an advisor or as a leader.

Falignus thought that the lone bright spot on the council was Kraven, the tall, winged Wizard who so far had shown a promisingly sharp mind. But Falignus knew that he was still inexperienced.

Falignus even had begun reluctantly admitting to himself that Gwineval, despite his divergent ideals, had been a valuable voice on the council that was now missed.

Given the lack of leadership and experience surrounding him, Falignus had begun to meet frequently with Samberlin, the ambitious leader of the City Senate. Falignus worried, however, that he was becoming too reliant on Samberlin for sound advice. Samberlin had a reputation as a ruthlessly self-interested politician– a reputation which Falignus believed was completely deserved. Falignus didn't like much about this ever expanding political relationship, but he did admit to himself that the old Senator was particularly insightful.

Falignus returned his attention to the events at hand. Siros, the new council member representing the First Circle of magic, was addressing the council. Large and imposing like Malvert, he was proving to be far less nuanced than the older, more experienced warrior had been. Falignus had been trying to mold Siros and attempting to get him to think more deeply about tactics and strategy, but so far Siros had only demonstrated a mastery of the frontal assault.

Though Falignus was always looking amongst the rank and file for promising candidates for promotion, no leaders had yet emerged from the First Circle who could rival Siros' raw charisma. Falignus had chosen Siros because he knew that the soldiers would follow the man; he knew that he needed a strong leader in combat before any other secondary qualities could be considered. So he had stuck with Siros, despite his deficiencies.

"We hit the Tanna Varrans hard–somewhat near their town of Tor Halos, where they had retreated into a pass between two hills. I sent flanking forces to take the hilltops, but they were intercepted. A Tanna Varran reserve force ambushed us from the peaks, and sent their flying lancers down from above. Even though we outnumbered them, we were hard put for a long while. Finally, they broke off."

"Soon after, we heard an explosion, which we realized marked the destruction of the nearby Oberon harvesting Obelisk. The Tanna Varrans had sent another force to overwhelm our rear guard while we were busy in the pass. They destroyed our unit and soon after, the Obelisk. They detonated the Obelisk somehow," said Siros, his brow furrowed and dark and his eyes darting from side to side as he spoke.

Falignus rose from his chair as he spoke, as if the force of his words buoyed him. "Haven't I told you to beware of misdirection? And why would you engage them in that pass knowing that they have flying forces that could use the heights to advantage?"

"They were in retreat–I thought that we would rout them," replied the reticent warrior wizard.

Falignus slumped into his chair. "Was there any sign of Gwineval?"

"No, none that we could tell," replied Siros, eyes downcast.

Falignus felt a wave of despair pass over him, but he was able to quickly quell it.

He then felt a strong pang of desire to initiate a ritual spell of prescience in order to try to see what Gwineval's next intentions would be.

But he remembered the last time that he had tried that; he remembered all too well how his hand had briefly faded into the nether realm. He was now, under the pressure of a conflict with an uncertain outcome, almost willing to take that risk again in order to obtain the knowledge that he so desperately sought.

But one thought restrained him, _would Hemlock ever accept me as a lover if I walked that path?_

He felt sure that she would not. And beyond that worry, he felt that she would never join in a partnership with him should he show signs of a dark transformation.

No, I must rely on my own wits and counsel.

"Siros, regroup your forces and prepare for the next harvest. Try to do better this time," instructed Falignus.

"The time may soon come when Gwineval chooses to directly intervene," he continued. "Remember, you must retreat when that happens. Make sure that you drill the units with the new counter spells that we've prepared since your last campaign."

Siros replied formally, "I will do this." The large Wizard rose and stood at attention.

Falignus responded to this gesture with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, shaking his head. "This meeting of the council is adjourned. Siros, you will do well to note that in your newly elevated position of head of the First Circle that you need not stand at attention any longer."

Siros, looking uncomfortable, grunted his acknowledgement, and quickly turned and left the room.

A young wizard was waiting for Falignus outside the council chamber.

"Samberlin is waiting for you, sir," the slim youth announced.

Falignus nodded and strode toward the central stair. He then descended to the lower level to meet the Senator.

...

Falignus stood as Samberlin entered the Audience Chamber. He beckoned the older man to join him at the front of the hall. Falignus sat on a raised dias upon which seven ornate chairs were arrayed. A small but delicately carved wooden chair had been placed before the dias for Samberlin.

Falignus sat and then gestured for Samberlin to sit.

Falignus reflected that although the chamber in which they sat was smaller than the Senate hall with which Samberlin was accustomed to, the sculpted wizards who stood in silent observation lent this chamber a certain oppressive gravitas that the open and airy Senate chamber lacked.

"What word from the Senate floor?" Falignus asked.

"It is quiet. Magic deliveries are running smoothly. There is still some talk of the battle of Tor Varnos, but it is being perceived by the people as a victory for the wizards. Most of the Knights have observed our warnings and are not talking about the battle. There are rumors, of course, but these are not being heeded by the general populace or most of the Senators," replied Samberlin in a dry tone which bordered on disinterest.

Falignus found the man mildly irritating, but he had proven to be a useful and unexpected ally. Managing the Elites and their Senate had always been an annoyance for Falignus–and working directly with Samberlin had greatly reduced that annoyance. Still, Falignus didn't trust Samberlin and he feared, at times, that Samberlin might be manipulating him subtly. Samberlin was the only person in the City that Falignus felt might actually be smarter than he was, and that made him seem all the more dangerous.

"It was a victory," Falignus responded.

Samberlin looked at him skeptically. "As you say. That story will be believable as long as Oberon production is sustained."

"I asked you here today because I want to inform you about a ... guest... that we have in the Tower," said Falignus, changing the subject.

"A guest or a prisoner?" asked Samberlin.

"So you know something of this personage?"

"Word has spread of the events in the Witch Crags in certain circles. I know some things about it and about ... her."

"Fair enough. I would like you to interview and observe her. I need to know whether I can trust her or not. I do have some leverage over her, but I need to get beyond needing that. I need her to stand beside me as a true ally."

"Are her goals in alignment with yours?"

"Our immediate goals are, yes. She wishes to kill the rogue Wizard, Gwineval, and so do I. Beyond that, she has been influenced by a local vigilante for many years. He tried to instill principles of personal liberty in her. It is these principles which I must overcome in order to have her serve as an ally in my...our effort to realize our vision for the City."

"An interesting slip of the tongue," noted Samberlin darkly.

"You and I have an understanding, Samberlin," lectured Falignus, sitting forward in his chair abruptly. "We both know that we are better served being allies than enemies."

The older man took on a nonchalant look as he responded. "True enough, I have said as much in the past. What is important, I think, is that we share a vision for the future of the City. But, at times, I become concerned that you are harboring a different vision of that future than you let on."

Falignus chuckled and brushed some of his flowing locks of dark hair out of his eyes. "Why, Samberlin, isn't this amusing? To hear you accuse me of a hidden agenda, when you have so many hidden agendas that I'm surprised that you can keep track of them all."

Samberlin smiled and responded only with a mock bow.

"I will send the girl called Hemlock to you at the lake exit from the Tower tomorrow, one hour after sunrise. Speak with her and use your acute powers of observation. Tell me if she can be trusted," instructed Falignus.

"Drink this potion before you leave your home for the meeting. It will make you invisible during the proceedings. Once you return take this counter–potion to restore yourself." said Falignus, handing the Senator two vials, which the latter placed within his robe.

"Of course," said Samberlin. "I never fail to be amused by your security measures," he added.

"No measures are foolproof. Today you are disguised as a harlot coming and going from the Tower–tomorrow you will be invisible. None in the Senate must suspect that we are in collusion."

"Some probably do, since it should be evident to the perceptive that it would be in my interest to be in collusion with you. As long as we do not provide any proof, all will be well. Farewell."

Samberlin rose and bowed more convincingly than he had moments before.

As the old Senator walked the length of the chamber and exited, Falignus tried in vain to read some cue of the older man's intentions from his walk.

Is he pleased to be able to speak to Hemlock?

Falignus decided that he would send Kraven, his most trusted advisor on the council, to observe the interview. Hopefully Samberlin would not be able to manipulate Hemlock under the observation of Kraven.

"Kraven is smart, but Samberlin may be too subtle for him," Falignus worried. But he knew of no other alternative, so he considered the matter closed. He rose and exited the chamber.

...

Hemlock was escorted out of the eastern gate of the Wizard tower, which was located deep underground. The wizards lit the way by igniting a series of enchanted magical torches, which were embedded in the rough stone walls along their path in the humid darkness.

She had been asked to meet with the leader of the Senate at the request of Falignus.

She wasn't sure why Falignus wanted her to talk to the Senator, but she was suspicious of his intentions. Falignus had said, when she had questioned him about the meeting, that he had merely wanted her to meet the man, whom Falignus had said was an important political figure in the City and also an advisor and ally of the wizards.

Hemlock could not escape the feeling, however, that she was being sent to meet the Senator in order for Falignus to gain another perspective on whether she was telling the truth about her desire to slay Gwineval or not.

Hemlock was encircled in a shimmering band of color, which emanated from a staff borne by the Wizard directly behind her. The ever changing energy field made her feel sluggish, and she could not attune to it because it kept changing its nature.

Hemlock could not see the Wizard who restrained her, but she knew that it was the leering winged wizard known as Kraven, who only disguised his lust for her when Falignus was present.

Hemlock knew that the wizards had devised this multi–colored spell to attempt to control her powers. It was a variant of the spell which they used in their dungeon, where she had languished when she had first been brought to the Tower.

Hemlock knew that the spell, which seemed to be a randomly alternating set of debilitating dweomers, had been effective in restraining her in the dungeon. But she wasn't sure whether this weaker, mobile version would restrain her if she devoted her full energies to escaping.

But Hemlock was not sure that she wanted to escape. She wanted to kill Gwineval, and she thought that having the wizards as allies could be essential in that effort.

I can't take on the entire Tanna Varran kingdom by myself.

Falignus had sent four other tattooed wizards with Kraven, although they were not able to fly like Kraven could, which Hemlock thought made them poorly suited to support him.

After a time the group came to a narrow passage which extended about one hundred feet, and forced them all to walk in single file. It ended in a small, locked iron door. A wizard unlocked the door with a gesture, and the group emerged into a narrow chasm, open to the morning sky.

Hemlock's eyes were stung by the sudden shift from dark to light, but soon she was able to see a grassy rampart which led from the floor of the chasm upward.

The group climbed this path, and Hemlock admired the many colorful and flowering vines which clung to the rocky walls of the chasm. She also enjoyed listening to the songs of many birds which flitted about the group as they walked.

Soon the group emerged onto the long semi-circular road which was located at the center of the City and which surrounded Hemisphere Lake. They stood on the section of the road which was adjacent to the eastern side of the moat that surrounded the Wizard Tower and the western side of the Lake.

An older man in a loosely fitting Senate robe waited.

He introduced himself, bowing, and looking at Hemlock: "I am Samberlin, speaker of the Senate." He nodded to Kraven as well.

"I am Hemlock," she replied.

"Let's walk."

"All right."

Hemlock made eye contact with Samberlin as they settled into an easy stride, flanked by the wizards. She noticed that Samberlin was careful to stay at a reasonable distance from the magical field surrounding her, but was still close enough for easy conversation.

"So tell me what happened in the Witch Crags," said Samberlin.

Hemlock found the gaze of the older man disconcerting. There was an analytical quality that was constantly present, almost like a third party to their conversation.

Hemlock decided to divert his line of questioning with one of her own. "Are you an ally of Falignus?"

Samberlin smiled in amusement, but Hemlock noted that there was little joy in that smile, and a subtle hint of derision.

"I wouldn't use the term ally," he responded. "I would say instead that we are united by a common purpose."

"Does Falignus appreciate this distinction?"

"Of course. I make no attempt to disguise my primary motive in life, which is self-interest. There are certain corollaries that arise from that motive, such as the benefits of government and basic ethics. But I act in my own interest and everyone knows this about me. I think that in a way, people trust me because of this, which is somewhat ironic. Perhaps it's because they know that I do not act rashly or without full consideration of the ramifications of my actions."

Hemlock found Samberlin's nonchalantly amoral attitude repulsive. Safreon had always stressed to her that compassion toward those deserving of it was a core value to live by. Samberlin evidently was diametrically opposed to that viewpoint.

There was a long pause in the conversation. Hemlock remembered her many days with Safreon and became sad.

Samberlin broke the silence in an upbeat tone which contrasted starkly with Hemlock's mood. "So how are you feeling, oh great Redeemer, Savior of the City and Protector against the threat of the rogue Wizard and his army of unwashed savages from the Witch Crags?"

Hemlock looked at him, trying to determine whether he was mocking her, but while he was smiling, he also looked serious.

What does he mean?

"That is how you will be known to the people, as their Champion against the tyrannical wizard, Gwineval."

"That sounds a little...theatrical," she replied.

Samberlin stopped short and looked at her in admiration. "Oh my, Falignus didn't do you justice when he described you."

"What are you talking about? It was just an observation."

Samberlin resumed walking and Hemlock and the escorting wizards followed his lead.

"An excellent observation, even if you do not appreciate its significance. You grew up in the Warrens as I understand it?"

"Yes."

"What do you know of the Elite district and Senate politics?"

"As little as possible," she replied sarcastically.

"Amazing."

"What?"

"It just amazes me when I see how well our plans work sometimes. We've carefully crafted conditions in the Warrens to produce a stable and apathetic population. Your response is precisely what I would have hoped for."

Hemlock felt angry and violated at the same time.

"Don't be offended–you've clearly risen above your modest origins," Samberlin offered in a conciliatory tone.

Hemlock was still angry. She looked at the older man. She could see his slight build, which was revealed by his robe as he walked. He wasn't frail and was fairly well-conditioned, but he looked fragile all the same. Hemlock thought that she could probably dispatch him with a single blow to the head.

"Listen Hemlock, I need to discuss certain political and social realities with you. We seem to have a common goal–all of us–which is to rid the City of the threat of Gwineval, who now apparently wields a power that could destroy us all."

"Look, it's personal for me with Gwineval. I don't need to hear all of this. All that you need to know is that when I see him I'll attack."

"Not true. What if circumstances change? What happens after we eliminate him? We are offering you more than a mercenary role in this; we'd like you to become part of our organization. We'd like you to consider our ideology, which I think you may find compelling once you allow yourself to honestly contemplate it."

Hemlock considered his words as she looked at the many beaches and parks that surrounded Hemisphere Lake. Even at this early hour some people, who were likely taking a day of leisure, were setting up picnic areas. Far along the shoreline from where they stood, she observed the brightly colored umbrellas of the Elite areas. Closer were the areas where the people from the Warrens made their picnics – with drab umbrellas that were often tattered or patched.

Hemlock considered anew what she had always accepted; that the Elites had their areas and that the people from the Warrens had other separate areas. The two groups did not intermingle.

Have we all been manipulated for all of these years?

"Why don't the people from the Warrens insist on using the Elite beaches?" Hemlock asked aloud.

"People are tribal in nature. They are conscious of their tribal affiliation and of other tribes. We go to great lengths to reinforce the distinctions of course. But it is largely an innate trait. People must never feel that their tribe is a castoff or exploited by the other tribes. That is why we always elevate a certain number of people from the Warrens into positions of public honor – in order to perpetuate the perception that true merit can overcome tribal boundaries. People don't always completely accept that, but it creates enough doubt that they do not challenge the tribal boundaries. Overall, this tribalism and our policies to manage it and reinforce it serve to maintain order quite effectively."

"You don't see that as exploitation?"

"No, I consider it a necessary symbiosis. The Elites provide the laws, structure and ethical standards that define the lives in the Warrens. The Warrens provide the human capital that we need to build and maintain both of our communities. Before the Elites and the wizards, this land was ruled by a number of feuding warlords. Suffering and death were a dominant part of everyone's lives. The Imperator ended that, and established this order, which has withstood the test of time until today."

Hemlock flushed with anger as she considered whether the work that Safreon and she had done in the Warrens had furthered the aims of Samberlin and the Elites.

"Are people...are they just pawns on a chessboard to you? The people of the Warrens could live on their own," Hemlock responded indignantly.

Samberlin chuckled. "No, governments control fear. Without a government, people's natural desire for more wealth takes hold, unfettered by any overarching authority. These people begin to use violence, fear and intimidation to exploit the weak. You need some form of central government to keep the meaner side of the human spirit in check."

Hemlock was angry, but these ideas were new to her. She felt overmatched by the experience of Samberlin.

"The reason that I am telling you all of this is that you need to enter into an alliance with us with your eyes wide open. You are very powerful, but you need to understand that your power needs to be applied and channeled through subordinates; the people," explained Samberlin, sweeping his arms around him at the final word.

"Could you have faced the entire horde of that foul Witch by yourself? No, you needed the people to be with you, to support you and to allow your power to be applied to maximum effect. The control that we exert over the people is used to this same end. Your former mentor may have seen this as evil, but we see it as a necessary reality."

Again Hemlock felt overmatched.

I need to think. Why didn't Safreon discuss this with me?

"What is the relationship between the Elites and the wizards?" she finally asked.

For the first time, Samberlin did not immediately reply.

"Again, it's a symbiosis. The wizards control a vital resource: magic. Sometimes that has put us at odds with them. Ultimately, magic would have to be controlled by some entity; for in its raw form, it puts too much power into the hands of individuals, leading to risk of a society without central control, and all of the negative consequences that I've just described. The wizards and the Senate share power now. The wizards control magic very effectively and the Senate controls people equally effectively."

"Why can't the Senate act in the interest of the people instead of controlling them?" Hemlock argued.

"Because people often aren't smart enough to understand their own best interests."

"I don't agree with that."

"You're young, wait until you have time to observe how people act and react – especially in a crisis. You'll see."

They had been walking for some time, past the beaches and the Senate building, which stood tall and proud. That edifice had always seemed to embody justice to Hemlock. Now the overseer of that building was telling her that it was all a lie. That edifice was now the embodiment of manipulation in Hemlock's eyes.

Having almost completed a full circuit of the lake, they were again nearing the Wizard Tower, which rose dark and mysterious, in contrast to the stately grandeur of the Senate building, which rose as a counterpart, across the smooth water of the lake.

Becoming conscious of their location, Samberlin asked, "Is that enough for today? Or would you like to ask more questions?"

"You've given me things to think about, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. I will work with the wizards until we kill Gwineval. After that, no promises," Hemlock responded defiantly.

Hemlock heard a skeptical grunt from behind her. Looking back, she met eyes with Kraven.

"It will be fun to hunt you down then, after we kill the Lizard," he boasted, leering.

"Silence, you fool," Samberlin said flatly.

"Hemlock, your last remark was a dangerous statement. One might infer that you might turn on us once Gwineval falls. How are we expected to react to such an inclination on your part?"

"That is your concern, not mine," Hemlock responded, eyes still locked with Kraven.

Samberlin sighed. "Unfortunate. Well, you lot, take her back. And you," he pointed to Kraven, "don't get any rash ideas. Take her back unharmed."

"As you say, old man. Come on," Kraven replied, continuing to smile darkly.

##  Chapter Twenty Five

Hemlock sat slumped in a fine brocade chair in the room that the wizards had imprisoned her in, gazing out the window. She considered many of the things that Samberlin had said to her.

_Should I have claimed to be loyal?_ She had a feeling that that wouldn't have worked. _He would have known_.

She considered that perhaps she had been wise to play it straight with the Speaker of the Senate. _Samberlin looks like a man who has spent a lifetime lying and learning to detect when others are._

Recoiling from unpleasant thoughts of the old Senator, her mind turned to fond, but bittersweet memories of Safreon. She remembered his passion, his keen appreciation for individual liberty and his faith in the human spirit. _What had he said to her about the Elites?_

"Most of them live in a gilded cage, dancing to the tune of their jailors. They are good people, but naïve. They do bear some responsibility for ignoring the plight of the less fortunate, but I cannot wholly indict them for that. Someday, they may awaken, and be of great aid to our cause," she recalled him saying to her.

At the time, she hadn't understood those words, and he hadn't seemed anxious to elaborate.

Why did he spoon feed me this knowledge? At least Samberlin and Falignus treat me like an adult.

A familiar knock came from outside the door. She knew it well, as the person whom she expected to call on her had always knocked with a distinctive rhythm. She didn't like to admit to herself that she enjoyed these regular visits from Falignus, but she did.

_Perhaps it's just the boredom_ , she reasoned, fully aware that it wasn't true.

She rose and opened the door, at once conscious of the fine gown that she wore, as Falignus had provided nothing less pretentious for her.

He bowed and entered the room, his light complexion wearing an uncharacteristic look of frustration, accented by his long dark hair.

"Greetings," he said, bowing to her.

"Hello," she replied, "I have a question for you."

"Oh?" he asked, surprised at her opening the conversation. That had usually been his role since his visits had begun.

"When I broke into the Tower weeks ago, there were riddles warding the circular stairs in the utility room on the first floor. The answer to the final riddle was my name. I've been thinking about that, and wondering why. Did you make the riddle? Did you know that I was coming and set it up for me?" she asked.

"Ah yes," he replied with a playful sparkle in his eye overshadowing his former look of frustration. "I did create that riddle, although I didn't consciously realize that it was going to be answered with the name of the first person to enter the Tower undetected in recorded history. Hemlock is a reagent that we've been known to use in certain potions. I think it was a coincidence, if you believe in those."

His answer did not fully satisfy Hemlock, but she accepted it, turning away and responding with a noncommittal grunt.

She felt Falignus' eyes on her. "Hemlock, Gwineval continues to destroy the Oberon obelisks. His tactical skill is amazing. I had no idea that he was so skilled in that area, or I would have transferred him to the First Circle."

"Any word on his location?" she asked.

"None yet. He has yet to show himself on the battlefield. I suspect that he is taking time to study the Wand and learn its uses."

"Why don't we attack?"

"We can't get drawn into a long campaign now and we are low on harvester golems. Our priority is to maintain the supply of Oberon to the City. Plus I need to stay in the City to make sure that rascal Samberlin doesn't make any unexpected political maneuvers. You've met him now, so you probably can appreciate my concern in that area."

"Yes, I can. By the way, I suspect that the tactics you are seeing are not Gwineval's, but Tored's. He is a Tanna Varran general. He seemed like a great soldier to me," she mentioned without thinking. She then wondered about the wisdom of providing that information to Falignus.

"Really? Tored, you say? Thank you," he replied, looking pleased. "I didn't think that aberrant fool had it in him to be a military commander."

There was a long pause as Hemlock felt guilty for providing information about Tored, who had done her no wrong.

Falignus approached more closely and gently turned her head until her gaze met his.

"I'd like you to attend a ball with me," he stated, ignoring her incredulous look at his touching her.

Hemlock mockingly scowled in response, but relented when she saw that he was serious.

"Are you mad? I'm a prisoner in your Tower. Why would you ask me to attend a ball? And assuming I had a choice, why would I choose to do that?"

Falignus took a light tone in response. "I prefer to think of you as a guest, as you know. Of course I can't force you to go to a ball–it would defeat the purpose and spoil all of the fun. It's meant to be a lighthearted and joyous event after all."

"Sorry, I'm not in a dancing mood at the moment."

"Precisely why you should attend. I also have a surprise for you–a pleasant surprise. And you can pick out a nice dress for the occasion."

"I've had enough surprises in the past weeks for one lifetime, I think," Hemlock responded, eyes downcast.

Falignus stood silent for a moment, looking contemplative.

"Fine, you're making me spoil the surprise." He paused. "You recall that I mentioned that I had personally seen to the care of your sister?"

Hemlock looked up with undisguised hope in her eyes.

"See? That got your attention, didn't it? Well, I do like to attend these balls in the elite district from time to time. I have a weakness for the pomp and finery, I suppose. One of my contacts mentioned to me that your sister, now quite healthy and happy, has been invited to the ball by a prominent nobleman. You've been asking me constantly about seeing her. I thought that you might want to attend this ball for that reason, and perhaps for others as well."

Hemlock was silent for several moments. Finally she chuckled to herself. "So you think it's that easy, do you?" she asked rhetorically.

"I assume nothing. If you do not wish to go, then you do not have to."

"Is it fun for you?" she asked.

"What?" he replied with a tone of mild annoyance, like one might use with a recalcitrant child.

"Playing these little games with me?"

"Look. I'm a wizard, but I'm also a young man living here in relative seclusion with a bunch of old, boring scholars. There is suddenly a beautiful young woman in our midst. It seems perfectly natural, to me, that I might ask her to a function such as this, feeling as I do about her, that is."

Hemlock felt reluctantly charmed by Falignus' invitation, but also felt deeply offended at the circumstances under which the invitation was being delivered. Her thoughts turned to her sister, though, and she knew that she wanted to say yes and accept his offer.

Turning away from him, she said, "Have you spoken to Samberlin?"

"I have."

"What did he say about me?"

"He said that your loyalty is uncertain."

"And you are undeterred by that, I gather?"

"If your loyalty was so easily won, I should probably value it much less."

"Well spoken. I suppose that I'll play along, then. I'll attend your little ball, but only if that old fool, Grubbins, chaperones," she said finally, turning back toward him.

For the first time, she thought that she had truly caught him off guard.

She smiled slightly and he looked relieved when he realized her joke.

"Why, I was fairly terrified at that prospect. Well played," he responded, smiling. "Now," he continued, "you do need to understand that we will be magically disguised. Your sister will not be able to recognize you. I thought it best to initially handle matters like this. You will be able to make full contact with her soon. Besides, she seems quite smitten with this noble who will escort her. It might be a kindness to let them enjoy their evening, and for us to enjoy ours from a distance."

Hemlock looked at his full lips and cleft chin and wondered what his real intentions were. There had been boys and a few men in the Warrens that had made overtures toward her in the past. Some had intrigued her–mostly on a physical level–but she had never felt a loss of control like she felt around Falignus. This scared her and made her want to rebuff him.

But she had already agreed to go and she couldn't figure out a graceful (or logical) way to demure.

Falignus was always graceful in his interactions with her and this made her want to be graceful as well.

What is this connection I feel with him?

Realizing that she had been lost in thought and hadn't responded to him, she hastily replied, "Yes, let her enjoy the night. It will be enough for me to see her."

Falignus bowed to her and she again saw a sparkle in his eye.

"Tomorrow, when I come to you, it will be early evening. We will dine together, and then make our way to the Ball."

He smiled at her as he executed a self-deprecating bow, and then left the chamber.

Hemlock moved toward her dinner tray, which had been brought by a young Wizard some minutes prior to Falignus' arrival. As she ate, she wondered why Falignus had never dined with her before.

...

She began the following day by progressing through her usual routine.

As had happened every morning since she had come to the Tower, she was escorted down each of the Tower floors on a gently winding staircase that seemed to follow the curve of the Tower's outer walls, punctuated by sharp turns where the walls formed a corner. She was then led out of a small basement door and into the caves beyond. While she was not allowed to experience the freshness of outside air, the air in the caves and caverns was still somewhat refreshing compared to that of the Tower (for her chamber's windows were closed and secured by the magical field used by the wizards to restrain her). Only the guarding presence of the wizard Kraven, and his unending stream of crass sexual advances marred what would have otherwise been a pleasant part of her day.

Hemlock had taken to reading a treatise on the magical properties of roots and herbs, one of the few books in her chamber, and, much to her chagrin, the least boring of them. She recalled some of the herbs from her childhood, when she had lived on her family's farm outside of the veil, and this was comforting to her.

As the sun began to set, Hemlock's thoughts turned fully to the coming events of the evening. She had been thinking about the ball all day, but only now allowed herself to become fully aware of it.

She rose and opened the door of a large wardrobe and exhaled mildly in surprise. Several exquisite gowns had been placed there while she had been out on her daily walk.

She chose a blue dress, woven expertly in an iridescent, smooth fabric, which she assumed was silk. It was accented with gemlike beads and pleated luxuriously below the waist with sequins. It was more beautiful and elegant than any clothing that she had ever seen.

Fine jewelry had also been placed out for her. She chose ornate silver earrings featuring topaz stones and a large topaz necklace, encircled with a stunning set of shimmering diamonds.

_This jewelry alone would buy half of the homes in the Warrens_ , she thought in amazement.

After she had dressed herself, she sat for a time and waited for a knock on the door. She was undeniably excited and as she sat, she tried to coax herself into a neutral frame of mind, for, as she chided herself, she was engaging in this activity only to gain the trust of Falignus, so that she might be given an opportunity to avenge herself against Gwineval. And, of course, she desperately wanted to see her sister and be sure she was safe.

Finally, the expected knock at her door came. Rising after a moment, she opened the door and beheld Falignus, who looked resplendent in a fine dark suit, with an ornately woven black neck tie. He carried an ornamental cane, which was tipped in gold with the visage of snake.

Their eyes met and once again she caught a rare glimpse of Falignus appearing off guard.

"You look beautiful," he said, smiling.

"You also look nice," she replied, in what she hoped was not a gush.

"Shall we be off then?" he asked, backing up and offering his arm.

"Yes," she said noting his gesture, "but let's not overdo it."

He looked awkwardly at his arm and retracted it. "Ah," he said airily, "right, after you, then. We will exit via the back door. I think you are familiar with the route."

"Indeed I am," she said, closing the door behind her and walking through the dimly lit corridor toward the familiar stair. As she walked, she noted that the oppressive air of the Tower didn't seem quite so heavy for some reason.

They walked together and chatted lightly and effortlessly. Soon they exited the Tower, navigated the caves and caverns and then climbed up the narrow chasm walkway as she had done on the morning when she met with Samberlin.

They walked side by side and close together around Hemisphere lake, and the night was crisp and cool. He put a light shawl over her bare shoulders.

Hemlock noticed that the magical field which the wizards used to contain her was not visible.

_Has he decided to trust me fully?_ She also wondered whether she should try to exploit that trust, if it had truly been granted.

They reached the Elite district, passed the stately Senate building and continued deeper into the beautiful district, which Hemlock had never set foot in before.

Hemlock marveled at how clean and perfect everything was. Special rose colored torches had been placed in the streets for the ball, and marked the route to the dance hall.

Other revelers filled the streets, dressed beautifully, and it seemed to Hemlock like the entire district must be attending, as they neared the hall in the midst of a small crowd.

The dance hall was a special building, rivaling the Senate hall in its architectural beauty and grandeur. It was bedecked in more rose colored lanterns and colorful bunting accented the whitewashed railings and columns.

Sweet music could be heard coming from within the hall.

"This is amazing," said Hemlock, "it's almost like another world."

"Someday all of the City could be like this," Falignus said.

Hemlock turned to him and saw that his comment would likely lead to an exposition on politics, were she to engage it with a reply. Instead, she chose to smile and took his arm.

He smiled in return, and she saw the political line of thinking pass from his countenance leaving only an expression of joy.

Arm in arm, they entered the Hall, amidst other joyful couples. Hemlock was surprised to see that the interior of the building was open to the sky above, where the stars twinkled majestically, as if in approval of the happy occasion below.

The Hall itself contained many huge ice sculptures which lined the walls in a series of three-quarter gazebos rendered in ice. These glowed from within with sparkling blues and reds. Great carpets had been placed on the floors and the benches within these structures of ice in order to shield the revelers from the cold. Happy guests sat within and watched the dancers, and the ice did not seem to be melting or giving off any discomfort to the occupants of the gazebos.

A large line dance was being performed to the tune of an expert orchestra.

The combination of the music and the spectacle left Hemlock feeling light-headed, and just then Falignus took two glasses from a waiter and presented her with a glass of fine wine.

"Let us toast this fine evening," he said.

She nodded, and as their glasses met, a beautiful note was struck by that meeting.

She drank and the light-headed feeling intensified. She realized that she didn't want the feeling to lessen.

After a few more moments, Falignus pointed out a young girl who was dancing in a peach gown cut very similarly to the one that Hemlock had chosen.

Tears ran down Hemlock's face as she realized that it was her sister, Mercuria. She had never seen her sister look so healthy, vibrant and beautiful.

Turning to Falignus, she realized that she was beaming with joy, but it was too late to try to mask it.

"She looks amazing – like her ailments are gone," Hemlock said.

"They are gone. I have seen to it that she has received the best care available. She has been adopted by a fine family from here in the district. Like you, she had no trouble adapting to a more refined environment. In fact, I think you'll agree that she's flourished in it."

Hemlock couldn't dispute that claim. She watched as Mercuria danced gracefully and Hemlock saw that she seemed to be smitten with the young, smartly dressed man who danced with her.

"Everything you've said is true. I can see that she is happy," she said.

Hemlock continued to find the environment to be intoxicating. Seeing her sister filled with joy repaired a part of Hemlock that she hadn't realized had been wounded. She became aware that she had shut off her feelings for a long time. But Hemlock chose not to dwell on this revelation, for fear of it dispelling her current mood.

She then marveled as blue and green lights scintillated playfully through the lattices of ice, rendering the entire ballroom in incandescent splendor. She became aware of Falignus standing beside her and of his warmth–which was highlighted by the pleasantly mild chill of the air.

She realized that it would be easy–frighteningly easy–to forget herself for this one night. She felt like she could step into another life–perhaps a life that she would have had outside of the City–if things had been different. It occurred to her that this chance might never come again.

She felt Falignus reach his hand down and grasp hers. She didn't recoil from his grasp.

As they held each other, she realized that if the freedom of this night was a pool that she had tried to reconnoiter–that she had instead fallen in head first. She felt increasingly light-headed from the wine.

Looking up at Falignus, she whispered, "Just remember, this isn't real. It's a fantasy."

He looked down at her, his cheek rippling pleasingly as it rendered his sardonic smile. "What isn't?" he replied.

They danced for hours under the starlight.

When the hour began to grow late, and the revelers grew fewer and fewer in number, Falignus bid her to return to the Tower.

She agreed, and as they walked near the Senate building, he stopped her short.

Holding up a finger to bid for her patience, he began to weave a spell.

Hemlock felt a sensation of warm energy wash over her as she felt first a dweomer of obfuscation and then a strange sensation of lightness.

Falignus took her hand and they began to float gently upwards.

She laughed and he laughed with her as they floated higher, and eventually travelled over the Senate building and out over the lake.

The water was beautiful in the moonlight as they soared, hand in hand.

Even the dreary appearance of the Wizard Tower couldn't dull their mood as they landed on its upper balcony.

They entered through the atrium and Falignus led her down the Emerald stair, which did spark a glimmer of a memory of harsh reality and of the weight of the past in the back of Hemlock's mind. She began to be conscious of herself again, but only a little. If anything, it made the sensations which were still running strong in her seem that much more precious.

When Falignus paused at a door that was not her own, she knew what he wanted. She looked into his eyes and nodded in agreement.

As she entered his room, she repeated a phrase over and over in her mind.

"It is just a dream."

##  Chapter Twenty Six

As the first, virgin rays of light hit the ceiling of Falignus' chamber, she was fully herself again.

She stole a final glance at his sculpted body and rose.

Also awake, he rolled over and made a plaintive command that was really a question: "Stay?"

She shook her head sadly, trying to savor the final echoes of the prior night, but finding the effort unsuccessful.

"Last night was just a glimpse of another life that we could have had, if this world wasn't so ugly and full of pain," she said.

"It can be more than a glimpse. That was a foreshadowing of the life that we can build together," he insisted, spreading his arms wide.

Again she shook her head. "I'm sorry."

She felt his eyes on her as she walked to the door and let herself out.

...

Siros gazed out over the valley below, watching nervously as several units of Tanna Varran lancers moved along the valley floor, moving in and out of the trees in the wooded terrain. He had recently returned from the Wizard Tower, still reeling from his tense meeting with Falignus, and was fulfilling his resupply mission for the front line units.

He felt somewhat overmatched by his new responsibilities as commander of the field units of the First Circle. He knew that he was a good leader of men, and felt very confident in that regard, but the tactical and strategic decisions caused him great worry and sometimes panic. He secretly wished that he could be demoted, but he didn't feel that Falignus would ever have faith in him again if he expressed this sentiment.

Siros' body still felt like it was being pricked by pins and needles–a sensation resulting from his recent teleportation from the Wizard Tower.

Another teleporting brass cage had been built by the wizards at a great cost of time, manpower and magic. Teleportation was essential to the command and control of remote operations and logistics, and therefore its construction had been a priority after Gwineval and his companions had commandeered the original. Siros wished that they were able to build more of the odd devices, but the cost was simply too great, given the many responsibilities of the wizards as the administrators of the Oberon supply in the City, their recent casualties in the battle of Tor Varnos and the pressures of ongoing battles with the Tanna Varrans.

Siros looked over the First Circle field army, which had been reduced by battle casualties to three platoons. The force was now guarding one of the two remaining Oberon extraction obelisks, this one closest to the small Tanna Varran town of Tor Trios.

The week before, Siros had led an assault on Tor Trios, but had been repulsed when the Tanna Varrans were able to bring a ballista to bear and prevent him from attacking under the cover of the remaining harvester under his command. He had attempted several long range bombardments of the Town, hoping to set it afire or score a lucky direct hit on the siege engine. Unfortunately for Siros, the process of amplification which the wizards used to achieve the range required made the fireballs employed inaccurate, and the bombardments had been unsuccessful.

The Tanna Varran units had not attacked lately, but Siros could see that they were clearly on the move and likely preparing an assault. He became increasingly tense as he watched their forces move before him.

He saw Quilog, his second in command, seem to note his contemplative demeanor and approach to discuss tactics.

"Sir, I have kept our forces on this hilltop as you ordered," the man reported. Siros noted, with some alarm, how dirty Quilog's wizard robe and red sash were, and how drawn the man's features were.

We've met our match in these Tanna Varrans, especially since that fiend Gwineval gives them such powerful magic resistance with his accursed counter spells.

"Distribute some quick rations from the supplies I've brought back. I don't want any of the men leaving their posts though; they must be ready to fight at a moment's notice," Siros ordered.

As Siros turned his attention back to the Tanna Varrans moving across the valley, his instincts screamed out to launch an attack.

The enemy forces were moving closer to the hill adjacent to the one upon which his wizard unit was encamped and which bore the precious harvesting obelisk. The distant hill was slightly smaller than the obelisk hill, and almost two miles away. Siros knew that the Tanna Varran wings would not be able to fly that distance without landing for a recharge. That thought gave him some comfort.

This is a secure defensive position.

Still, he felt sure that if he attacked now, the Tanna Varrans would be routed. He envisioned that if he advanced a line of wizards with ranged spells at the ready, that the Tanna Varran units would be caught moving across the wizard's line of fire. It would be a slaughter.

But the angry words of Falignus played back in Siros' mind. He had been the victim of misdirection more than once, and he feared that Falignus would slay him outright if he made the same mistake again.

_I will stay put this time. But why are they moving to that hill?_ he wondered with renewed anxiety.

Several minutes passed as Siros continued to watch the Tanna Varrans on the move.

On a whim, he turned back to inspect the Oberon obelisk, which pulsed with power. Near the obelisk, laboring wizards directed a series of glass tubes which were joined with a flexible metallic material into a long length; this stretched from the open foot of the nearby Harvester golem into the caverns beneath the obelisk, where the harvested Oberon accumulated. The tubes shone with a dull green which was emitted from the Oberon plants that flowed from the caverns into the waiting harvester. Siros realized, with a start, that his wizards were still loading the harvester and that it was not battle ready.

"Quilog!" Siros shouted.

The second in command, who had been directing subordinates in their efforts to distribute rations as ordered, sprinted across the hilltop to Siros.

"That harvester should be in battle drill!" Siros raged.

"But Sir, what about the Oberon quota!?" cried Quilog, snapping to attention under the wrathful gaze of the larger and more powerfully built Siros.

"There'll be no delivery at all if that harvester is destroyed! The Tanna Varrans are on the move!" Siros raged.

Suddenly a cry of alarm rang out over the hilltop.

Siros turned and saw that the first units of Tanna Varrans, which had reached the distant hilltop, were launching into flight.

"Get that harvester prepared for battle!" Siros screamed at Quilog, cuffing the man roughly out of a surprised reverie, and then pushing him off.

Siros always felt better once a battle started. His anxieties melted away as the fireballs, spears and energy bolts began to fly.

His stomach and spirits dropped, however, as he realized that the Tanna Varran lancers had not landed between the hills as he had felt sure that they would have had to. They were soaring across the intervening valley and were poised to arrive directly over the hilltop where he stood, in battle formation.

Siros cursed and looked over the disposition of his wizard units on the hilltop. They were dug in at the lip of the hilltop, ready to repulse an attack from below. If they didn't reform into squares in the center of the hill, there would be a chance that the Tanna Varrans could rout them.

"Form up on the obelisk!" Siros shouted as he began to run around the perimeter of the hill. He was shouting and pulling wizards out of their entrenched positions and throwing them toward the obelisk and the harvester as the first Tanna Varran lancers passed overhead, landing directly in the vicinity of the unprepared golem.

The Tanna Varrans, who were suddenly more numerous than the wizards near the obelisk, killed many of the wizards around it who were still trying to stow the Oberon harvesting equipment.

Siros joined a group of wizards in a charge directed at the Tanna Varrans near the obelisk. As they met the first unit of lancers, Siros felled three with a burst of lightning from his Staff.

The tattooed battle mages beside him glowed with power as they charged into the Tanna Varrans, some falling, impaled by the spears of the blue warriors.

Siros began to realize that things had gone from bad to worse when he saw the great figure of the harvester golem buckle and fall over under the pull of cunning ropes employed by the Tanna Varrans who had taken control of the center of the hilltop.

The golem lurched in a way that was sickening to Siros, and it fell directly onto the obelisk, causing a great explosion and a shower of metal shrapnel, which caused casualties on both sides.

Siros cursed sharply. The obelisk was destroyed. More Tanna Varrans were flying into the battle, and the remaining wizards were unable to assume their carefully drilled formations which made them so effective in battle.

Siros remembered the teleportation cage. It had just been used, but Siros recalled ordering it to be recharged upon his arrival. Had that been completed?

He didn't know, but he was close to the cage and he decided to find out.

He fought his way through three more Tanna Varrans before managing to enter the cage. He rang the bell and hoped for the best.

As the surroundings of the hill melted away, he felt a surge of relief mixed with great shame at abandoning his men. He also felt a terrible fear at how Falignus would react to his defeat.

...

Later, in the days following the ball, a wizard came to Hemlock's door and told her that Falignus had summoned her.

As she followed the wizard through the tower, she prepared herself for what Falignus might intend to discuss with her. She was feeling some self-loathing for the night of pleasure that she had experienced with him. It felt, to her, like a small betrayal to the memory of Safreon to have conducted herself as she had.

The words of Samberlin had also had an effect on her, however. She had begun to ponder the concept that there could be compelling, alternate points of view to the moral code of Safreon. But that didn't change how Hemlock felt about observing and respecting the memory of her mentor, no matter whether his teachings proved to be wholly true or just part of a greater body of truth. She knew that some part of him would always be with her, provided that she did her part to honor his memory.

Hemlock realized that she was being led to the audience chamber.

Upon entering, she saw Falignus seated formally in the throne of the head of the Guild. He motioned to her to sit beside him.

As she did so, Falignus motioned to the wizard who had escorted her. That wizard moved along the length of the hall, exited, and after a few moments escorted a familiar figure though the far entrance.

Hemlock watched as the wiry senator, Samberlin, walked proudly along the length of the audience chamber. He seemed nonplussed by the elder wizards that were depicted in two ranks of statues that he passed between as he walked. Hemlock thought that it was more than just familiarity with the chamber; pride seemed to ooze out of the man in a palpable way.

"Samberlin, what an unexpected surprise," Falignus called out loudly and sarcastically. "I've invited Hemlock to sit in on our little chat," he added.

Samberlin bowed to Hemlock briefly. "The latest shipment of potions was not sufficient."

"Samberlin, this is a time of war. We must all tighten our belts," Falignus responded lightly, inspecting his fingernails. Looking at Falignus, Hemlock felt that a large portion of his former grace had passed away at some point since she had last seen him. He looked drawn and irritable.

"Be that as it may, honored sir, we have trouble on our hands now. These last weeks of light shipments have depleted our reserves of potions. We've already cut back on non-critical deliveries to our merchants," Samberlin responded with an acidic tone, his eyes dark and almost feral.

Falignus made a mocking gesture of sympathy mixed with chagrin in response. "What's a wizard to do? We'll have to tell the people that magic is going to be rationed for a time until the City is safe again. We'll impress an army to join us in battle against Gwineval."

"I don't think you fully grasp the situation," replied Samberlin. "Your strict control of magic has been unpopular. Certain covert elements have resisted this control. Per your counsel, we've chosen to suppress the nature of this conflict with Gwineval from discussion amongst the people. We can't simply reverse course now without risking an open revolt. It will take weeks upon weeks to condition the people to accept this type of situation, and even then, success would be far from certain. This conflict cannot continue – the risks are too great. You must sue for peace."

Falignus laughed a shallow laugh which ignited into an angry outburst. "I will never sue for peace with Gwineval! He will be utterly destroyed!"

"He has control of the Oberon now. Your situation is untenable," responded Samberlin, unrepentant in the face of Falignus' anger.

Falignus stood with a start and his arms rose above him. Sheets of roiling fire burst forth and encircled Samberlin, crackling dangerously close to the loose fitting tunic which the Senator always wore.

Samberlin, for his part, retained his impassive look despite the deadly display of force. Hemlock, again, found herself impressed with the old Senator.

"I have made arrangements, Falignus," Samberlin shouted over the fire. "Were I to meet a mysterious end, certain letters would be opened by various parties. I think it would set off a chain of events you'd find most unfortunate."

Hemlock could see Falignus struggling with the competing forces of his emotion and his reason. She grasped his arm and he looked down at her sharply, rage and hurt in his eyes.

Pulling away from Hemlock and looking back at Samberlin, he lowered his arms and the fire dissipated as quickly as it had been conjured.

"So Samberlin, I refuse your request to sue for peace. Where does that leave us?" Falignus asked coolly, all traces of his former rage suddenly gone.

Samberlin did not hesitate. "I'm afraid that I must resign as your councilor and partner in policy. I will have to prosecute an inquiry into your conduct and the Oberon supply. I will do what I can to delay or blunt any rash action on the part of the Senate, but I will no longer be able to take these private meetings with you."

Falignus sighed. "Fine. Fine. Samberlin, I'm curious: do you really feel that this is in your best interest? Do you feel that I will be defeated by Gwineval?"

"I fear that there are significant risks that you will be defeated, yes; not the least of which is the young woman seated beside you, if I may be so blunt."

Hemlock was angry at the old Senator, for his words shone with the brilliance of truth. She feared that Falignus would feel the same way–and that he would offer to sever ties with her for fear of losing his alliance with Samberlin.

She glanced at Falignus, and was relieved to see that he did not appear moved by Samberlin's analysis.

"Samberlin, I am troubled by your conclusions, but I can only conclude that you've finally lost your edge after all of these years. Gwineval will never defeat me. I'm not even concerned about it," boasted Falignus coyly.

Samberlin replied with a bow to Hemlock and then a bow to Falignus, which he accented with a theatrical sweep and crack of his robes. The gesture was unmistakably defiant.

Falignus chuckled as the old Senator withdrew from the Chamber.

Once Samberlin had gone, Falignus turned to Hemlock. "Ready yourself, for the battle with Gwineval nears. Samberlin doesn't understand Gwineval like I do. I knew that Gwineval would never confront me until he feels that he understands the Wand and has a clear advantage over us. I suspect that that point is now very close at hand. I'll admit that the military prowess of this Tored has taken me off guard, but it may actually play into my plans. Now there is only a single Oberon obelisk remaining. It is the only place left to defend... and to attack. It is there that we will soon travel to kill Gwineval."

Hemlock felt bloodlust surge in her veins. It was an unfamiliar feeling–having been dormant for many days.

She nodded and stood.

Falignus rang a bell which sat beside his chair. The attendant wizard returned and escorted Hemlock back to her room.

As she walked, Hemlock's mind was dark with a renewed fury at the thought of confronting Gwineval, that seemed more intense than it had been prior to her recent joyful evening. It made the joyful memory of the ball seem even more remote and dreamlike.

Hemlock lay in her chamber that night and stared at the ceiling. The events of the day had left her uneasy. The exchange between Falignus and Samberlin made her realize how tenuous her position in the Wizard Tower was. She again contemplated escape, but she felt weak within the Wizard's force field which surrounded her room and she feared that Falignus would retaliate if he suspected her to be disloyal. She remembered the Wizard's prison room and the suffering that she had experienced there. It made her feel world weary. With these troubling thoughts in mind, she drifted off to sleep.

She dreamed strange dreams of other worlds and of Safreon. He appeared in her dream and spoke to her in her old home in the Warrens.

"I don't know what is happening Hemlock," he said.

"Safreon, I feel strange, I have great power, yet I'm scared," she responded.

"Hemlock, I've seen writing in the clouds portending doom," he stated, also seeming scared. This was doubly alarming to her because she had never seen him scared in life–only resigned in the face of danger.

"Take courage, I've seen no such signs in the sky," she said, in an attempt to reassure him.

But then he gestured outside, and she walked to the window and looked out and up toward the sky, with some concern. She was relieved to see nothing unusual beyond a pale azure sky filled with luxurious white clouds. As she looked, however, a great black line began to roll slowly across the sky. As the line passed across her view, the blue sky seemed to be engulfed, leaving only a deep black void flickering with stars.

Hemlock fell to her knees, unable to take her eyes off of the incredible spectacle.

"SAFREON!" she cried.

Hemlock somehow knew that a great tempest was engulfing the world, and that it would be only moments before she was swept away in the tumult. Everything faded to a quiet white as she closed her eyes and the black line travelled overhead. She remained conscious in her dream state.

She experienced a strange force in that whiteness, vast and almost terrible in its power, which washed over her mind in waves of textured purity so sharp that they made her cry out in pain.

With a start, she awoke in her bed, deeply troubled. She sat up and rested her feet on the wooden planked floor of the room. The sensation of the wood on her feet gave her an odd comfort, although the troubling feel of the dream seemed to linger for several minutes as she again reclined in bed and tried to return to sleep.

She heard an unfamiliar noise in the chamber. Fearing that she still dreamt, she pulled the sheets up higher. But there it was again, an unmistakable metallic noise. She vaulted out of bed and landed in a prone position, ready to take evasive action.

She saw something there in the moonlight of her window, a metallic figure that was shorter than a man or woman, and which was made up of a dizzying array of mechanical parts.

It was one of the mechanical gnomes that the wizards used as servants–of the same ilk as her former companion, Merit.

Somewhat relieved, she thought, _I will have to remember to ask Falignus about this intrusion._

The small figure took a few steps forward, and there was a subtle sound that Hemlock recalled: tiny gears whizzing and whirring and the gentle hiss of steam exhalations.

As the figure spoke, Hemlock considered with a start that perhaps the figure wasn't just one of Merit's ilk and that it could actually be Merit.

"Miss Hemlock?" the figure said quietly.

"Merit!" Hemlock cried and ran over to hug the small figure awkwardly.

"How did you get in here?" she cried.

"The wizards never changed the wards for the servants at the cavern door of the Tower. I suspected that they wouldn't. Nobody ever notices us. Some Tanna Varrans smuggled me into the City and dropped me off in the chasm near the lake. I was able to enter the Tower using my old passphrase."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Gwineval sent me to talk to you, Hemlock," he answered in his distinctive way.

Hemlock's features darkened. "Gwineval? Why?"

"He fears that you mistook his intentions with the Wand, Hemlock. We both do. We need to rescue you from here!" Merit said.

"Merit, what's between Gwineval and I is our business. You shouldn't be involved," she replied.

"But I am involved, Miss Hemlock. You're both my friends and I can't believe that you are here with the wizards willingly. Gwineval believes that you have formed an alliance with Falignus and the wizards, based on news from the City. Is this true?"

"Merit, I was there and I saw Gwineval rip the Wand from Safreon's hands. Safreon was..." here she became emotional again, "was killed soon after. I blame Gwineval and I want revenge. That is the only reason that I am staying here with the wizards."

"I was there, too, Miss Hemlock. You must not have noticed, but I was assisting Safreon during his conjuring. He drew too much power from the creature and asked Gwineval to come help him dispel it before he lost control of it. I think that he knew he would not survive, but he was more interested in saving the Tanna Varrans from that creature. Gwineval didn't kill Safreon. He tried to save him, but it was too late."

"I don't believe it. I know that Gwineval wanted that Wand badly. He saw his opportunity and he took it. He's just like the rest of the wizards; ambitious and self-serving."

There was a pause and the gears on Merit's head churned at a high speed.

"Hemlock, Gwineval feared that you wouldn't believe me. He related a tale of Safreon's to me so that I could tell you. He said that it might help you to understand."

"A tale of Safreon's?"

"Yes."

"I know all of Safreon's tales – certainly all that Gwineval would know," she replied incredulously.

"Gwineval didn't think that Safreon had told you this one. Gwineval said that Safreon only told it to him after he had been tested."

"What did he mean by tested?"

"He didn't say, but he told me to tell you that you are being tested right now."

Hemlock was becoming angry. "This is all ridiculous! Gwineval is just trying to confuse me. Well, it won't work. He's as good as dead."

"Will you listen to my tale nonetheless, Miss Hemlock?"

"Fine Merit. If you came all this way to tell me the tale, then go ahead."

Maybe it was the unusual sound of Merit's voice, but as Merit began the tale, Hemlock began to imagine with a strange lucidity the unfolding events as they were relayed to her.  
...

The air was chilling in the chamber as Safreon looked at the fortified parapet in the distance. He was in a large, natural, underground chamber that stretched hundreds of yards in diameter. Approximately fifty yards away from him was a worked stone stair that rose another fifty feet onto a parapet built into the sheer rock wall. He could barely make out a large stone door on that parapet, illuminated by the glow of a fungus which grew naturally on the rock.

"This is the rumored alternate entrance to the Wizard Tower, no doubt," Safreon mused.

He had no interest in the Wizard Tower on this day. He was headed into the deeper chambers. He had been secretly excavating in some remote caverns below the tower in recent years. The day before, he had made an important discovery.

He felt a familiar presence behind him.

Turning, he saw his raven-haired wife, Jupita. Her beauty seemed out of place in this harsh chamber, with its chill breezes that sounded like a ghostly wail as they wound through the depths of the earth.

Safreon lamented at her being there anew, for though she had insisted on joining him with a well-reasoned argument that her knowledge of ancient tongues and language could help him realize his discovery, he knew that it could also expose her to unknown dangers.

"Could I live with myself if she is harmed?" he thought with a shudder.

He suppressed the troubling thought, and tried to focus on the excitement of the discovery that appeared to be at hand.

Safreon believed that he had found a hidden chamber that may have predated the Wizard Guild itself. Since the chamber appeared to be cleverly concealed and because he could find no evidence of recent passage, he dared to hope that his suspicions were correct.

Safreon and Jupita had discussed at some length what the chamber could represent. They had excitedly wondered if it could hold a secret from the first Wizard, the benevolent founder of the City, who was now long forgotten by most. The possibility also existed that the chamber could date back to the dimly recalled time of the Imperator, the usurper of the City.

Safreon also knew that if the wizards discovered them down in these caverns, that it would mean death for both of them.

"But we're doing this for a higher cause–" he thought, "to loosen the grip of the wizards on the City."

He also had some ambition to try and organize a political body within the Warrens–something to rival or at least counterbalance the Senate.

He knew that he needed as much power as possible in order to do that, especially if there was any sort of violent confrontation.

As he walked with Jupita, they chatted in low voices.

"Do you really think that the rune I saw is from the time of the Imperator?" asked Safreon.

"I do," replied Jupita. "It appeared to have the tight style that is characteristic of the period. It is also a rune associated with concealing magic. Hiding was supposedly the preference of the Imperator, who believed that any known ward would eventually be broken."

"It does seem to make sense," Safreon sighed. "I was so hoping it would be something from the time of the first Wizard. Imagine what pure magic might exist in such a place? The Imperator's artifacts are likely to be tainted and corrupt."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I'm not sure what you are hoping to find. I am just seeking knowledge."

Safreon hugged her close. "That's my Jupita: always the pacifist. I need an item of power – something to help me stand up to the wizards and the Senate."

"Don't talk like that," Jupita warned. "You scare me when you talk that way."

"Don't worry about it – it's nothing," he replied, smiling. But his eyes burned as he thought about what he might find and what he might do with a powerful artifact in his hands.

After a time they heard the sound of rushing water and knew that they had reached the underground river that flowed out of Hemisphere Lake.

They soon reached a large underground chamber that held a subterranean pond. They made their way around the pond on a slim shelf of rock. Periodically there were ripples in the pond, which neither of the travelers cared to speculate about the origins of.

They reached the edge of the waterfall, and were able to pass behind it as the thin rock shelf continued.

Standing there, in the din of the falling water, Safreon drew out a flask filled with a glowing powder. He gathered a handful of the stuff and flung it sharply against the wall.

"There," he hissed, seeing the outline of the rune, which he had discovered on his last expedition, magically revealed by the glowing powder. It had not been visible to the naked eye.

Jupita leaned out, close to the water, to see past Safreon. Nodding, she confirmed that it was the same rune which she had thought it would be, based on a makeshift sketch that Safreon had done previously.

"You should stand back," Safreon shouted.

Jupita shook her head negatively. "Just do it," she cried.

Safreon shrugged and drew an intricate wrought iron shape from his cloak. He held it out and Jupita altered the orientation of his hand carefully.

Safreon knew that the angle was critical, so he concentrated on keeping his hand steady as he moved it toward the glowing rune.

As the wrought iron made contact, there was a glow that emanated from the wall that they stood against. Suddenly a hidden door swung open, moving amazingly fast considering its great weight in rock. Safreon and Jupita almost fell into the dark chamber revealed by the opening of the door.

Holding up his lantern, Safreon illuminated walls carved in bas–relief. The City was depicted, surrounded by four regions, each marked with a man holding a wand. There were details shown about each region, and the man with the wand was shown reigning over the people.

Across the long chamber at the opposite end was an open exit, which revealed a vaulted stairwell heading sharply downwards.

Safreon found a lever that shut the door behind them.

"Definitely the Imperator," muttered Jupita, with awe in her voice, as she inspected the artwork on the walls.

"We can trace those carvings later. We should take the stair and see what else there is. I fear detection by the wizards," urged Safreon.

Jupita was clearly disappointed, but she agreed. Together they approached the stairs, which were long and steep.

Giving Jupita a reassuring look, Safreon took the lead and began to descend.

A long time passed as they descended. It seemed like hours to Safreon. He feared that Jupita might tire and fall on him, so he was careful to try and keep his balance.

Just when he felt that they were reaching the limits of their endurance, they came to the bottom of the stairs and emerged into a large open chamber, in which their footsteps echoed loudly.

There were sconces on the walls flanking the wide arched doorway, and Safreon took a stick from the floor and lit it from his lantern and then lit the sconces, which miraculously still had some oil in them.

The sconces lit with a pop and revealed the full grandeur of the room.

It was dominated by a great cavernous pit, above which a platform was suspended by long iron supports that descended from the ceiling. A walkway extended from the ledge farther into the room onto the suspended platform. Upon the platform was a marble table and on that table rested a single item. It appeared to be a wand.

Safreon's pulse pounded and his head swam.

"It can't be," he muttered.

"Safreon!" hissed Jupita sharply, looking behind them.

Turning, Safreon saw that the wide doorway where they stood was flanked by the crudely carved images of two stone Golems, vaguely humanoid, and some twenty feet tall. Their gaze was directed into the center of the chamber.

"Safreon, I don't like the look of those," Jupita warned. "The Imperator loved traps!"

"Jupita, they're just carvings, don't worry. Look over there! What is that?" he whispered, directing her attention to the suspended platform.

"Safreon," Jupita was again awed. "I think you know what it must be!"

"I'm going for it, wait here," he said tensely.

"I'm coming," she stated and followed him.

They advanced into the chamber and both soon stood at the mouth of the suspended walkway.

"Please Jupita, wait here," Safreon cautioned.

"Fine. But you must be careful. Look at how this walkway is constructed. Look down there, what is that?"

Jupita pointed down into the great pit, where a dull red glow was visible far, far below.

Safreon paused. This discovery was so intense that he felt like his faculties were overloaded.

"I, I don't know. Could it be the Maker's fire?" he asked.

The Maker's fire was fabled to be the magical field upon which the City and surrounding realms travelled through the realms outside of the veil.

"Maybe. Amazing," was all the Jupita could say in response.

"Jupita, unless I am dreaming, that is a Wand of the Imperator out there on the platform. Stay here," he said.

He had taken about a dozen cautious steps and was at the midpoint of the causeway when the sound of crackling and crumbling rock roared from the direction of the great golems, which stood on each side of the single arched doorway like looming sentinels.

Safreon glanced back as he started to run for the Wand and saw that Jupita was recoiling from the Golems, moving closer to the causeway.

"Jupita, run for it! Wait for me in the hallway!" he cried.

"I'll not leave you!" she cried in response.

Safreon was amazed to see that the heads of the Golems were turning, and their eyes had begun to take on a baleful red light. The chamber floor was vibrating like it was in the midst of an earthquake as the great heads moved.

"Jupita, run!" Safreon cried again, desperate.

His heart sank as he glanced back again and saw Jupita shake her head resolutely and remain on the lip of the causeway.

But he was near to the Wand.

"Just a few more steps," he encouraged himself.

Then great blasts rang out on either side of him, dropping him to his knees.

Rock debris was flying through the chamber and there was a strange humming sound which was accompanied by the sound of rock grinding and falling.

Rising quickly, Safreon looked back and saw that Jupita was rising also; she had fallen precipitously close to the edge of the chasm.

"Get back!" Safreon screamed over the din.

Looking to his left and right, Safreon saw that beams of force were bursting forth from the eyes of the golems.

Following the path of the beams, Safreon realized to his horror that they were cutting through the iron supports that held the platform on which he stood from falling into the chasm.

He realized that he had only scant moments to act.

In a few more dashing steps, he grabbed the wand. It was warm to the touch and he felt a surge go through his body that almost felt like lightning, but without any pain.

Turning, he ran desperately back over the causeway toward Jupita, who was trying to maintain her footing amongst the falling rock and continual rumblings of the floor of the chamber.

In that moment, as he ran, Safreon was captivated by her beauty. Her raven hair was flying to and fro as she struggled, and her cloak and tunic were hanging on her loosely, revealing more of her figure than they normally would have.

But then his mind turned to the Wand, and another surge of excitement echoed through his body, overcoming his concern for Jupita.

"This is the greatest moment of my life," he considered as he ran.

But then the causeway began to buckle under him, finally succumbing to the stresses in the rock floor. It dropped about three feet and the rock floor around it partially disintegrated, falling into the dark pit.

The golems continued their grim work as Safreon reached the end of the causeway and jumped for the edge of the rock floor, which was now some feet distant and above where he stood.

Amazingly, he made the jump, although only his shoulders and arms made purchase as his chest and body landed heavily against the rock. He had managed to retain the Wand during the jump.

Another rumble reverberated through the chamber then, and there was another great heaving of the rock floor followed by a blinding emanation of powdered rock.

Safreon struggled to climb up, but holding the Wand made it difficult.

A weak voice came from below him. "Safreon?"

Looking down, Safreon's heart froze. Jupita hung below him from an outcropping of rock. Only her bleeding hands, shoulders and desperate face were visible.

Safreon knew that he couldn't help her, for he was barely able to keep himself from falling, even as he held the Wand.

"Jupita!" he screamed.

Her hands began to give way.

Their eyes met as she fell. No words were spoken during that moment before she disappeared forever from his sight. It seemed like an eternity to Safreon, like they lived an entire life together in that one instant.

But then it was over. And he was alone, in the chamber that was crumbling around him.

The causeway finally gave way and fell into the chasm, as Safreon, now broken in mind, body, and spirit, gained his purchase and climbed to safety.

The golem's eyes went dead as Safreon limped between them. They were cold stone again and Safreon felt a sudden kinship with them, for he felt nothing–was nothing–in that moment.

##  Chapter Twenty Seven

Hemlock was still lost in thought about the implications of Merit's tale about Safreon when she realized that the small gnome had finished.

He looked at her with what Hemlock interpreted as a warm expression.

And then she saw a curious change come over Merit's features. In a combination of movements that she hadn't seen him make before, the gears, pistons and levers of his face formed into an expression of unmistakable mirth. He was smiling.

_Perhaps seeing that makes all of this suffering worthwhile_ , she thought to herself, bewitched by Merit's simple expression of joy.

"It has been good to see you again, Miss Hemlock. I must go, now that my mission is complete. Please consider Gwineval's words, and this tale about Safreon. I am not a great thinker, but I know that it must be important. Farewell."

Hemlock smiled as Merit quietly left her chamber.

Hemlock returned to her bed and laid in it uneasily. The tale that Merit had told her about Safreon troubled her despite her wariness that Gwineval had intended it to do just that.

_What if Gwineval is telling the truth?_ she wondered over and over in her mind.

She wasn't aware of a clear transition to sleep, but soon she was conscious of floating over the Wizard Tower, looking down at the City. It was a clear night and she could see many people still moving about on the streets below her. She noticed that something was odd about them though. Concentrating on them, she was able to discern the glint of metal on their limbs. At first she thought that it was jewelry, but something in their gait was familiar to her. It was a gait that she had seen often in the past few weeks and as recently as tonight, when Merit had crept into her room to tell his tale.

"The City is full of automatons!" she gasped.

She floated higher until she could see the hills of the Witch Crags to the west, the mountains to the East, the fertile farmlands to the south and the barren desert to the North.

Higher still she floated until she could make out the veil which marked the borders of the outer realms of the City.

Beyond the veil, she could see other lands. Hemlock perceived that they were different than the realms of the City, appearing raw and primordial by comparison.

She continued to rise, until she saw the course of the City through the lower realms mapped out as a flickering trail. The trail, traced out in many more than three dimensions, was somehow comprehensible to Hemlock.

And the form of the trail spoke to her talents of magical affinity in a way that she couldn't express.

She gasped to herself again.

Is this what Safreon saw? Did he know?

By observing the form of the magical path of the City through the multiverse, Hemlock knew instinctively what the plan of the first Wizard had been when he created the City. It hadn't been intended merely as a retreat or a refuge for a reclusive Wizard, it had been meant to be a means to help troubled souls to find the peace of the higher realms of consciousness.

This realization revealed the treachery perpetrated by the Imperator and the later wizards in its full extent. They had perverted a land which had been created with the highest sense of moral purpose. Their actions had transformed the byproduct of an act of compassion by the original Wizard, and had redirected it to a malicious purpose of exploiting the very souls that the City had been devised to aid.

Hemlock then became conscious of the blood of the first Wizard resonating in her veins. Somehow she knew that she was descended from his line, although she did not know how this could be possible.

Her eyes opened.

She still lay in her bed in a secured chamber in the Wizard Tower, but she knew that she was now a different person than the one that had recently descended into slumber in that very bed.  
...

When Hemlock rose from her bed the next morning, she felt certain that the events of the night had not been just a dream. She felt different in a subtle, but significant way.

She did some stretching and exercises, bathed and dressed, following the routine that she had established since her confinement. Then, for want of anything else to do, she sat down to continue reading another book from her bookshelf, which proved to be only a barely adequate relief from her growing boredom.

Just as she had settled into a state of comfortable distraction, an unexpected early knock came at her door.

When she answered, instead of Falignus, she saw the doddering Professor Grubbins waiting, peering down his nose and past his circular metal rimmed glasses at her with undisguised contempt.

"Lord Falignus demands your presence in the audience chamber," he said formally.

"Well, let's not keep him waiting," Hemlock replied, pushing past the bookish old man roughly.

As she moved quickly through the halls and down the central stair, Grubbins, who could not match her pace, was shouting behind her, "You cannot travel unescorted!"

She ignored him and quickly arrived in the audience chamber, entering through the side door used by the wizards, which was accessed by a wide circular stair from the second floor.

"Ah Hemlock, please sit," instructed Falignus, slightly more aloof than usual to her.

Hemlock was not surprised that Falignus was reacting to her refusal to remain his lover by distancing himself from her. In fact, she was somewhat relieved that he seemed to be expressing his emotions genuinely. It gave her some hope that he planned to continue to trust her–at least insofar as her purported goal to kill Gwineval aligned with his identical aim.

Hemlock sat beside him in the row of seating meant for the wizards.

Falignus rotated in his chair to face her. "The time is ripe to move against Gwineval," he said.

Hemlock paused for a moment before responding. She realized that she was beginning to feel disconnected from memories of Gwineval–and of Safreon. She had to quickly reassure herself that she could still form a mental image of Safreon's face. Satisfied that she could, she replied, attempting to couch her remarks about revenge against Gwineval with a level of enthusiasm. After last night, she found this was increasingly difficult. "Good, the wait has been interminable."

"There is now only a single Oberon harvesting obelisk intact, near the border of the Witch Crags. Gwineval will know that we will have to defend it at all costs; he will know that he can cripple us by destroying it. It is a logical site for a final battle between us," said Falignus, fixing Hemlock with a penetrating gaze.

Hemlock averted her eyes away from his stare, immediately regretting a missed opportunity to appear resolute."It makes sense. When do we leave?"

Falignus turned away and looked into the hall reflectively.

"Hemlock, I'm concerned about Gwineval's use of the Wand. I have been studying the properties of the Wand of the Imperator over these weeks. I know that it is very potent, but also seems to require some time to perfect its use. Your old comrade used it to great effect against us in the battle of Tor Varnos."

"Yes, I think Safreon had the Wand for quite a while–maybe he understood its powers better than Gwineval does," Hemlock said.

"I can't underestimate Gwineval though–especially after the brilliant campaign that he and the Tanna Varrans have waged against us these past weeks. My commander, Siros, though a bit dull, is reasonably capable. Yet he's been outwitted repeatedly; and more importantly, he's been outfought by the Tanna Varrans, aided by Gwineval's magic. Gwineval was one of us; he knows our methods of battle. That is an advantage for him. Also, he is a brilliant scholar of magic and also a gifted practitioner. I have some reason to believe that he had done some study on the Wand prior to defecting from the Tower and I fear that, even without the resources of the Tower, he will be able to decipher all of the mysteries of the Wand."

"I do know that he and Safreon spent a great deal of time discussing the Wand in the days prior to your attack. I think you have reason to be worried. I think Safreon trusted Gwineval," Hemlock offered, hoping that this would demonstrate her loyalty to him.

Falignus rose from his ornate chair and strolled into the hall. He turned to face Hemlock.

"It is possible that I could locate another Wand to oppose him. But it would be risky and it would take time."

"You know of another Wand?" Hemlock asked, surprised.

"Each outer region is bound to the City with a Wand. It is possible that I could retrieve one of those. But it would be costly, and those in that region might not... appreciate losing it."

Hemlock considered this. "Could the City survive without one of the outer regions? Doesn't it need the Witch Crags for Oberon, the farmlands for food and the mountains for resources? But that leaves..."

"Precisely," replied Falignus.

"What is the purpose of the desert?"

"Perhaps I'll explain it to you sometime. Suffice it to say that under certain dire circumstances, it could theoretically be sacrificed."

Falignus began to pace, looking lost in thought. Hemlock did not interrupt him. Finally, he stopped and faced her, with a hand on his chin and a distant look in his eye.

"Hemlock, do you have any other observations that might help our cause?" he asked.

"I'm afraid that I don't," she responded.

Falignus walked toward her, and reached his arm out as if to help her up. But then he made a quick gesture with his hand and a spray of colored lights burst forth from his palm, enclosing Hemlock in the familiar shimmering magical field which the wizards employed to constrain her powers.

Hemlock darted upright and attempted to flee, but Falignus restrained her forcibly; her powers of speed and strength were effectively blunted by the magical field.

"Why are you doing this?" Hemlock asked, still struggling in Falignus' grasp. She felt that she might be able to overcome the magical field if given enough time. She determined that she would try to buy herself some time by talking. "Is it because of our night together?"

Falignus' expression changed from anger to cold amusement. "So, it has come to this, has it? You'll say anything to try and get free now."

Hemlock's heart sank as she realized that he would not be easily fooled. It sank further as she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and then saw other wizards enter the room.

Falignus retreated into the hall, looking reflective, as she heard magical incantations being muttered by two voices beside her. She saw the muscular brute, Siros, and the winged wizard, Kraven, looming over her. They were strengthening the magical field which enclosed her. Once they had completed their casting, they grasped Hemlock's arms and forcibly returned her to her chair. She did not resist.

Falignus strode even farther down the hall and then turned, strode back toward her and regarded her with a sideways glance. "Hemlock, I was uneasy last night and didn't sleep. As I lay in my bed, I realized that something was troubling me. Earlier in the evening, as I had walked in the lower floors of the Tower, I had seen two of the small mechanical gnomes together. This seemingly minor occurrence is actually highly unusual, and I made a note to mention it to Grubbins today, and thought no more of it.

But then, laying there, still unable to sleep, it hit me: hadn't I seen one of these custodian gnomes enter the teleporter with you and Gwineval on the night of our first encounter?"

Hemlock knew she was in trouble. She started to frantically consider things to say to Falignus. But she knew that it wouldn't help. She knew that she had lost his confidence.

"I realized then how clever Gwineval was in taking that insignificant gnome. He clearly must have sent it back to the Tower to bring some message to you. His plan would have worked brilliantly, but for my chance observation," Falignus continued.

He looked at her and Hemlock did not try to conceal her disappointment and complicity.

Falignus nodded to himself as he saw the guilt play over her features. "I was encouraged for one reason though. I knew that this would give me a perfect opportunity to determine your loyalty–and at a critical time. So I summoned you here today, hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst, as you can see. Sadly, it seems that you are not loyal to me. But you do have a chance to redeem yourself. Tell me what message the reptile sent–give me information that will defeat him."

Hemlock decided to tell the truth, since it didn't seem that it would affect anything. She knew that Falignus would probably not believe her anyway. "The message he sent was nothing that you would understand. It was a story about my friend, Safreon. It was a story of how Safreon's wife died."

Falignus' hands met at his nose and Hemlock noticed that they started to tremble. A rage came over Falignus and he lashed out in her direction, pointing at her violently.

"So you are telling me that he used this great advantage of his to deliver you a message in secret to tell you a tale of that old fool's past? Do you expect me to believe that? Hemlock, it's no secret that I've cared for you. I never wanted to hurt you, but if you persist in this pointless deceit, I'll throw you back in that hope forsaken prison of ours that I'm sure you remember well!"

A wave of terror came over Hemlock as she considered that prospect. But she controlled it and replied as calmly as she could. "I knew you wouldn't believe me. It's the truth though. It's all I've got."

Falignus looked at her and this time she held his gaze. His eyes were angry but also had a pleading quality to them. When he saw that her expression was set, he shook his head in frustration.

"We'll see how forthcoming you will be after a day in that cell," he said darkly. He motioned to Kraven and Siros, who lifted Hemlock roughly from the chair and led her up the stairs and out of the room.

...

Gwineval motioned to his nearest accomplice to advance, as he walked through the streets of the Warrens and stopped in the shadows at the corner of a small shop.

He noted that the man, as he emerged from the shadows, was wearing a long dark cloak and moving with what Gwineval knew was a practiced air of nonchalance.

Gwineval hoped that the network of Tanna Varran agents, which Tored had organized over the past weeks, were all mobilizing together at this instant: the hour and minute that had been chosen for the attack on the Wizard Tower. It was a sleepy night in the Warrens since it was the evening of the first workday after a three day celebration of the Spring holiday of planting.

It had been several weeks since the battle of Tor Varnos, where Safreon had fallen, Hemlock had been captured, and Gwineval had obtained the Wand of the Imperator. Since that time, Gwineval had learned that Hemlock might be collaborating with the wizards and more specifically, that she blamed him for Safreon's death.

_It is an understandable conclusion_ , he considered, as he saw two more Tanna Varrans cross the street to his left. Gwineval felt a great deal of guilt for failing to save Safreon, yet he knew, in his heart, that he had not intended for the man to die, or to seize the Wand for himself by force.

Three nights ago he had sent Merit to infiltrate the Tower and to deliver a message to Hemlock that he hoped she had understood and that he hoped would inspire her to regain her trust in him. Gwineval knew that if Hemlock joined with Falignus, they would be nearly unstoppable.

The prior night, Gwineval's agents had observed Falignus and a strong force of wizards leaving the Tower with the unassembled parts for one of their giant Oberon Harvesters, which they had transported on large carts. Gwineval knew that they would assemble the Harvester outside of the City, and then march on the Witch Crags, for what Falignus probably believed would be a final campaign against the Tanna Varrans and Gwineval himself.

Gwineval felt the reassuring weight of the Tanna Varran wings on his back as he moved forward to a small bakery which was located in the final row of cottages short of the moat which surrounded the Wizard Tower.

He spotted the man behind him and to his left, and nodded to him. The man began walking across the street, moving into position in the neighboring block. Gwineval looked to the South and motioned to another figure, which also moved into position.

Gwineval then looked at the tower, which stood looking darkly majestic and imposing in silhouette against the night sky. It was dimly lit from within, light emanating irregularly from the many heavy glass windows, some of which spanned multiple floors, giving the building a stately appearance. He knew that those windows were magically impervious to nearly everything–stronger than the stone which surrounded them. Looking to the top of the Tower and to the glass atrium, he considered its magical strength as well. His entire plan hinged on a secondary mission that Merit had accomplished three nights ago–unlocking and disabling the wards on the upper doors of the atrium.

Gwineval knew that Hemlock had not been spotted with Falignus' departing army. This gave him a great hope that his message had worked and that she would no longer seek revenge against him. But he still had doubts. What if Hemlock had been left in command of the Tower in the absence of Falignus?

Gwineval grasped the warm length of the Wand firmly. He hoped that he had mastered enough of its secrets to carry him through this night.

His plan was to take control of the Tower, cast out any Crimson Order sympathizers and then negotiate with the Senate, which had long hoped to one day emerge from under the shadow of the wizards. If his plan succeeded, it would eliminate the supply lines for Falignus' army. If Falignus stayed in the Witch Crags, the Tanna Varrans were under orders to engage him in hit and run tactics and starve him out. If Falignus returned to the City, he would have to face the combined forces of the wizards loyal to Gwineval and Miara as well as the Senate Knights and the small, but elite fighting unit of Tanna Varrans which now surrounded him, led by their general, Tored, who had no equal on the battlefield, save for the most potent of wizards.

Gwineval felt secure in his decisions, in this final moment before the attack. He felt sure that the City would be a better place–a place of free magic and free people–if he succeeded. If he failed, perhaps his actions would set an example for those that would come after him. His magically altered features smiled a toothy grin as he considered how completely Safreon's plans for him had been realized.

His mind reached out to Safreon. _Here I am, about to lead a coup against the Wizard Guild. Congratulations, friend. Maybe I'm just a puppet, and you are still pulling my strings from beyond the grave, but know this–I'm now a willing puppet. I'm sorry that you had to lose your life before I realized how much you meant to me._

Gwineval stepped into the road that hugged the edge of the Wizard Tower moat. He looked up and down the street and saw a hundred cloaked figures waiting. He knew that one of them was Tored, and this brought him confidence. He wished that their numbers were greater, but the need to remain undetected in the City and the demands of the magical enhancement required for each man to have a chance to survive the attack, had enforced a practical upper limit to the size of the force.

Gwineval turned back toward the Tower and raised his arms, the Wand showing brightly in his hand. A low shuffling sound behind and beside him told him that the rest of the force had moved into position beside him in a semicircle, hugging the edge of the moat.

Gwineval closed his eyes and turned inward. As he cast his spell, he interwove it with the flame in the head of the Wand, and he thrilled at the extra power that it gave to his incantation.

A dull glow sprang from each of the hundred beside Gwineval, enclosing them in a protective haze which had the side effect of making their features difficult to discern.

His spell now complete, Gwineval cast aside his cloak and unfurled his Tanna Varran wings. He heard the sound of the scores beside him doing the same.

He looked to his left and right, over the ranks of warriors, who were the finest of the Tanna Varrans. Then he hissed and hoarsely cried, "ATTACK!"

##  Chapter Twenty Eight

Gwineval leapt into the air under the power of his Tanna Varran wings, their magical energy disturbing the acidic waters of the moat below him, as he rose in the air and crossed it.

Almost immediately, stone gargoyles, which tipped the top of the Tower, began showering the attackers with lightning and fire, which emanated from their eyes and mouths. The noise of that outburst of magical energy ripped through the silence of the night. Gwineval was certain that nobody in the City would sleep through this attack.

He had reached about halfway up the height of the Tower before he took his first direct hit from a lightning bolt. The power of the bolt crackled all around him, blinding him temporarily and leaving a burning taste on his tongue. He cried out in pain, but the hazy magical shield that encircled him was revealed; he shared this magical protection with all of the attackers. Though the wizard magic still wounded, the shields were holding and apparently protecting the attackers from serious injuries.

A small part of Gwineval relaxed then, knowing for certain that Falignus had not recalibrated the magical defenses of the Tower prior to leaving. He now knew that the first phase of the attack would succeed.

Regaining his vision, he soared over the top of the Tower parapet and landed hard on the stone walkway surrounding the atrium. He was relieved to see a great number of the attacking Tanna Varran warriors landing beside him, although it was impossible to tell whether some had perished during the ascent.

"The doors!" he shouted, as he ran for the nearest one. He hoped that the other attackers around the circumference of the Tower recalled their mission briefing and were forcing their way into the door on the opposite side of the atrium.

Gwineval reached the door first and he didn't allow himself time to contemplate whether Merit had been successful in his mission to disarm the door wards before turning the handle and wrenching the door open. Again, relief pored over him as he ran into the atrium chamber, the many footsteps of those behind him echoing in the large, enclosed space.

Across from him, he could see the shadows of figures reaching the opposite door. That door opened too, and he could see Tored was the first in.

Gwineval shouted again as he saw four First Circle wizards; two were rushing up the stairs and two were rushing in from a guard chamber within the atrium level. Their tattoos blazed in the darkness as they formed a defensive line near the stairs.

"Attack!" he shouted as he prepared a potent counter spell for the death magic of the Emerald Stair, which he knew guarded the descent into lower levels of the Tower.

He saw one wizard fall quickly under the force of the Tanna Varran assault and the remaining three initiated a fighting retreat down the terrible stair.

He hoped that the training that he had given them would prevent any of the Tanna Varrans from descending that stair prior to the completion of his spell, for to do so would result in their deaths.

As Gwineval approached the stair, mostly consumed in concentration, he saw a shadowy, winged figure rise from a lower floor to hover beside the balcony of the Atrium, and then quickly descend. This almost distracted him from his spell, but he recovered his concentration just in time.

A foolhardy Tanna Varran took flight and attempted to soar down over the Emerald Stair prematurely, but the evil field that emanated from the stairs below him drew him screaming to its unlight; and where there had once been a proud warrior, there soon was little but a whimpering shell of a man.

When the force of the purity spell which Gwineval had prepared rose to a level that he could no longer contain, he stepped to the front of the Tanna Varran battle line and unleashed the magical force at the oppressive stair. The blast left the outstretched Wand of the Imperator in the form of a searing white beam.

There was a disembodied sound, almost like a primal cry, as the unearthly emerald darkness of the stair gave way under the power of that light.

The Stair splintered with a great crack, which made Gwineval fear that the entire Tower might fall under the force of it.

But the Tower remained intact and the evil force of the stair was vanquished. What remained was simply broken and scarred stone, which was difficult to navigate, but no longer had any supernatural properties.

As Gwineval descended with the Tanna Varrans, he wondered at the presence of that dark, winged figure, but the cries of wizard forces organizing on the seventh floor, soon demanded his attention.

...

Hemlock shrank into her mind, recoiling from the pain that burned at her senses, as she crouched in the dank cell.

She had little idea who she even was any longer, and little sense of anything that had happened in her life prior to her coming to this chamber, where her only experience had been pain.

She had a dim recollection that someone had visited her recently and had asked her some questions–questions that she did not have answers for.

Beyond that, her memory had simply stopped functioning. She hoped that she would just fold into herself and cease to exist–that the pain would subside. But it never did.

But suddenly something did change. She noted, with surprise, that the pain was lessening. Her head was also becoming clearer.

She started to remember recent events: her conflict with Falignus over Merit's clandestine visit and her subsequent imprisonment in this cell. She recalled that it had been Falignus who had visited her again and questioned her. She knew that it had been relatively recent, although she had lost track of time.

Her senses continued to clear, and she noted that a figure stood at the mouth of the cell.

Though her throat was painfully dry, she managed to speak. "Have you come to question me again?"

"Not exactly," replied an unfamiliar voice.

"Who is that?" asked Hemlock.

"I'm disappointed that you don't recognize me–but time is short! Come, get to your feet! Leave the cell!"

Hemlock was confused, but she could not resist the thought of leaving that cell under any circumstances. She crawled forward, and as she did so, the staggering lethargy that had weighed on her limbs began to recede. She looked up after a while and tried to focus on the form before her.

Again the voice spoke, "Hurry!"

She registered the voice as being male, but it was not Falignus.

Soon she reached the edge of the cell and her senses began to clear even further.

Rough hands grabbed her under the shoulders and lifted her to her feet, where she remained, though unsteadily.

Finally her eyes met those of her liberator. They were dark, predatory and cruel eyes.

"You recognize me now, eh? Oh the pleasures I would have with you. But now, something different awaits us."

Hemlock saw the black cloak, the leering mouth and saw an unusual movement from the back of the figure. She realized that it was the winged wizard known as Kraven.

"Yes, now you see. Come, Gwineval is here! You must help me to slay him!" Kraven said urgently.

As Hemlock felt strength returning to her body, she clenched her hands open and closed repeatedly. She still stood in the mouth of the cell, Kraven's form looming in front of her.

Hemlock saw Kraven take a staggering step back, after a deafening thunderclap raged like a fury over Hemlock's beleaguered senses.

When she recovered from the shock, Hemlock saw that Kraven was lying motionless on the floor some ten feet distant, his wings splayed out awkwardly. She could see the side of his head – or what was left of it – for a great cavity gaped in it, and it was charred and burnt like a piece of wood.

Hemlock's battle instincts took over. From the angle of Kraven's fall and the roaring noise that had preceded it, he must have been impacted by magic from her left.

Thoughts raced through her mind as she slumped against the cell wall to her left and peered out into the jail chamber.

Gwineval is here?

She could see a slight form moving toward her in the chamber outside the cell – it was a female form.

Hemlock's wits were still recovering, but when she saw the silhouette begin to make magical gestures, she reacted instinctively and leapt out of the cell.

She heard a sizzling release of force behind her and knew that she had narrowly avoided being imprisoned in the cell again.

"I... I don't want to kill you," said a troubled female voice.

Hemlock had landed in a crouched position in the walkway and regarded the figure over her left shoulder. Hemlock could see the gentle features on a familiar face, now trembling and shaking in an unfamiliar fashion. It was the oft-shunned wizard, Miara, known as a former ally of Gwineval.

"Miara, what are you doing? You're not a killer! Anyway, I no longer intend to kill Gwineval. I want to talk to him."

"Oh Hemlock, I don't trust you. Falignus has gotten to you–no matter what type of falling out you may have had. You're an impetuous fool like him. Move back to the cell."

Hemlock's hearing registered sounds from outside of the room now. She heard the loud crackles and explosions of battle magic, voices crying out in pain and agony, and the sound of steel on steel.

Hemlock knew what she had to do.

Judging that her reflexes were sufficiently recovered, she leapt violently toward the nearby wall between the cells before her, close to Miara.

Another thunderclap rang out and Hemlock felt a surge of heat close to her on her left and her vision had to endure a surge of light that temporarily obscured her vision.

But she reached the wall in mid-air and outstretched her leg, which bore her weight and coiled like a spring, before launching her off in the direction of Miara, who was trying to turn to defend herself.

Miara was too slow, though. Hemlock smashed the side of her head with her fist, and Miara slumped to the ground.

Hemlock realized that her punch had been harder than she had intended, so she knelt to check that the wizard still lived. She was relieved to feel a pulse, and then rose to exit the cellblock.

The sounds of battle had receded, and now sounded dull and muted.

Hemlock realized that she still lacked a weapon, but she feared being imprisoned again and wanted desperately to exit the stifling room and leave behind the inchoate cries of the other inmates, who, if they had looked sane at all, Hemlock would have freed.

She made a note to herself to deal with them later, if possible, as she exited the room.

As she entered the hall, she heard the din of battle more clearly; it was now emanating from the lower floors. She saw several bodies scattered about the hallway.

She remembered this hallway from her first trip into the Tower. On that trip she had gone up to the atrium level, now visible as an open chamber rising above her.

But the sounds of battle told her that she had to take a different, unfamiliar course.

She headed away from the direction of the Emerald Stair and down a hallway which ended in a corner, beyond which she could not see.

Before she turned that corner, she picked up a short sword from a fallen first circle Wizard, and then another from a nearby comrade of the first.

Both were impaled with Tanna Varran spears.

"It's true, then! Gwineval must be here!" she thought excitedly, though she was still uncertain how she would react to the rogue wizard.

She turned the corner and saw that it led to a curved stair which wound down to the lower floors, curving with the angle of the outer Tower wall. The stairs were soaked in blood, and she had to watch her footing as she dashed down them.

At the foot of the stair, she had to leap over a fallen Tanna Varran, whose torso had been slashed open by Wizard sword work.

Here the passage turned sharply, at a right angle to the outer wall, and Hemlock could see the open expanse of the central hall of the Tower, some yards distant.

The din of swordplay was still receding but suddenly there was a staccato blast of magical energy that shook the Tower.

Hemlock rushed away from the stair and emerged into the mahogany clad grandeur of the central hall.

She dashed down the central stairs, whose fine maroon carpeting was now burnt, torn and littered with the bodies of the gravely wounded, the corpses of the dead, and dismembered limbs and body parts.

"Now the violence that has been wrought indirectly from this Tower has come home to roost," Hemlock observed, as she rushed downward toward the front line of the battle.

She continued to descend on the main stair, which spanned the entire height of the tower. As she neared the third floor, she could tell by the sounds that she heard that the battle was now likely being waged in the audience chamber, which she knew was on the first floor.

She unexpectedly smelled the fresh air of the Warrens as a cool breeze met her face. Looking below, she saw that the wizards controlled the entryway to the tower and that they had opened the front gate which protected it.

As she reached the second floor, she saw that two score of Tanna Varrans were in battle with a squad of wizards on the landing at the top of the stairs leading down to the first floor.

Shouts and cries of combat filled her ears as she decided how to proceed.

Hemlock made a quick move into the smaller passages leading into the Tower, away from the central hall, and toward the wizard's private stair which led down to the audience chamber, which she had used often in recent days.

As she moved, the carpet and the carnage around her told the tale that some wizards had also retreated along this route.

...

Falignus was uneasy in his own skin. He sat at the controls of the last of the wizard Harvesters, which was lumbering, along with the last of the Wizard Guild's combat forces (save the garrison left behind at the Tower) into the realm of the Witch Crags.

He was deeply troubled by Hemlock's betrayal. Yet he had not been entirely surprised by it. He knew that he had romantic feelings for the girl, and that they were probably clouding his judgment.

"I must cast aside these petty feelings and concentrate," he thought, disgusted with himself.

He returned his attention to the tactical planning for the campaign that lay ahead. A map of the area had been unfurled and was suspended beside him, from the inside of the Harvester's iron outer shell.

Falignus regarded the map distractedly for a time, before stopping again in frustration.

He was again fighting the temptation to use a spell of prescience. He craved the insight that it would provide, yet he feared its effects.

Will it disfigure me? Turn me into a wraith?

_Hemlock has already rejected me_ , pointed out a cold part of his mind.

The thought of Hemlock and her rejection, was like the aggravation of an open wound. He reacted angrily to that pain, cursing Hemlock, Gwineval and even the fallen crusader, Safreon.

Finally, his anger and fear rose to a breaking point.

"I must know!" he cried.

He rose and ordered another Wizard to the controls of the lumbering Harvester, as he made for a lower deck of the automaton, where he could cast his dark spell in private.

...

Hemlock descended the private stair and arrived in the audience chamber in the midst of a chaotic melee. Tanna Varrans and wizards fought at close quarters, with spears and spells having given way to brutal sword strikes and desperate grappling.

She quickly spotted Gwineval in the fray, for he was bathed in an odd illumination.

As Hemlock watched, she was unsure what to do.

She saw that Gwineval held the Wand of the Imperator, and that he was using it to great effect. He was moving at supernatural speed and delivering fatal blows to many First Circle wizards, who, as a group, were clearly concentrating their efforts on slaying him.

Siros, leader of the First Circle, appeared to be the only force keeping Gwineval in check; his tattoos blazed with a fell light and he was able to match Gwineval's speed and land several savage blows on the serpentine wizard.

But Gwineval's body showed strange new properties: where the serpentine flesh should have been severed under the force of Siros' blade, the green scales instead gave way, stretching to an impossible extent so that Siros' sword was almost fully engulfed by Gwineval's torso–and then the flesh snapped back like rubber, projecting Siros' blade away at an awkward angle, and leaving Gwineval stunned, but miraculously unwounded.

Hemlock, as she stood in the archway of the chamber, saw some wizards and Tanna Varrans notice her and regard her skeptically, before being swept back into the flow of the melee. She was still unsure how to act as the battle raged and casualties mounted on both sides.

Returning her attention to Gwineval and Siros, she could see that Gwineval had killed two more First Circle wizards and wounded their hulking leader. But Siros fought on and landed another flurry of blows which stunned Gwineval and allowed other nearby wizards to land additional strikes on the scaled, rogue wizard.

Hemlock was surprised that Siros and the wizards were putting up such a good fight, but then she recalled something that Falignus had said to her once–that the wizards could tap into the vast supplies of Oberon in the tower. She guessed that they would have the magical power to cast many more spells within the Tower than they would be able to in another locale.

Seeing that Gwineval was faltering under the terrible beating of the wizards triggered something in Hemlock's mind, and she finally settled on a course of action.

Gathering her strength she cried at the top of her lungs, "STOP!"

Her voice rang out at a volume that astonished her. She realized that she must have unconsciously learned some of the Witch's technique for voice projection. That realization scared her a little bit–all the more because the magic had come unbidden.

Everyone in the room was stunned by her exclamation and all eyes turned toward her. The wizards and the Tanna Varrans quickly broke into two groups that eyed each other warily while looking at Hemlock for some indication of what was going to happen next.

Gwineval and Siros stepped to the fore of their factions. Hemlock now stood between the two groups, although still at the side entrance to the chamber. She gathered her wits about her and then strode into the room.

As she did so, a familiar form emerged from her right, behind the line of Tanna Varrans. It was Tored, covered in blood, but appearing unwounded. He nodded in her direction and she returned the nod.

Hemlock was not sure what she was going to say to diffuse the conflict.

As she reached the center of the two lines of fighters, a stir from the direction of the main gate diverted everyone's attention and she did not speak.

Knights in polished armor were entering the audience chamber in force.

The wizards began to cheer and both sides began to tense and posture more aggressively.

"WAIT!" Hemlock yelled loudly again, and most in the room settled, even as the knights continued to enter in great numbers.

Hemlock saw Siros make a sudden move and her ears recoiled at a clap of thunder which accompanied a purple bolt that burst from the huge wizard's fingers with a flash. This bolt was joined by purple bolts which leapt from every Wizard statue that lined the hall. More than two score of the purple bolts rang out, some catching an unlucky target in the crowd, but many finding their target, which, along with Siros' strike, was Gwineval.

Glancing to her right, Hemlock's stomach dropped as she saw that Gwineval's features had taken on an earthen hue, and that his lizard-man form was collapsing to the floor of the chamber like a statue–his body locked in some magical rigor-mortis.

"NO!" cried Hemlock without thinking. She leapt with supernatural speed and strength, the exertion tearing her dress in several places. She landed with swords in hand on Siros' broad shoulders. Siros' eyes were wide as she stared into them, her blades piercing his chest above the collar bone on both sides. She watched as the life drained out of the great warrior; and he crumpled to the floor, Hemlock rode him down and landed on her feet, looking over the assembled wizards and knights with a challenging gaze.

None in the room could meet that gaze for long, except for one, who strode forward from the rear. He was an older man, dressed in a Senate tunic.

Hemlock was not surprised to see that Samberlin had accompanied the knights.

"Now things are finally becoming clear," said Samberlin in a loud and confident voice, which was heard by every ear.

The old man reached the front of the Wizard and Senate line and bowed to Hemlock.

Hemlock nodded.

She turned back to Gwineval and saw that he was still frozen on the floor, being tended to by Tored.

"Does he live?" she asked.

"He does for now, but he is weak. He will need a great deal of healing magic," said Tored.

"Tend to him immediately!" she cried, and then turning to the wizards, she said, "You help, too! And no more tricks!"

Hemlock's eye was drawn then to an item which lay discarded on the floor, having fallen out of Gwineval's hand.

Hemlock realized that all eyes were now focused on the Wand. None in the room dared to move.

Samberlin strode slowly toward the Wand, appearing unperturbed.

Hemlock tensed as she feared that the old Senator might try to take the Wand for himself.

But he looked at her and smiled.

Gesturing toward Hemlock and pointing at the Wand, he said, "Take it. You, before all others here, should claim it."

Hemlock considered his words. It had been Safreon's first and then Gwineval had wielded it. Was it now her part to wield it, and what would she do with that power?

"Take it, Hemlock," Samberlin urged again, more insistently this time.

Hemlock decided to heed his advice simply because she could not countenance any other person taking it. She strode forward, kneeled, and grasped the Wand.

Her mind reeled instantly, and energy reverberated through her body, causing her to bolt upright.

Hemlock's gaze turned inward and she felt warm all over. She could no longer see the audience chamber of the Wizard Tower or the wizards, knights or Tanna Varrans.

Instead, she saw the surreal space that she had seen before when she had nearly been killed by the Witch. The space spread out all around her, seeming infinite in its magnitude. It was like an endless net of consciousnesses, each related to hers but living in a different realm. Some of the consciousnesses sent messages to her, which she saw as impossibly rapid energy bursts that travelled over a web of fine energy tendrils.

These consciousnesses, which were few among the many, welcomed her, saying that she now was foremost amongst her kind in power.

Hemlock wondered at this idea, as the vision started to fade. Hemlock concentrated and the vision became strong again.

"I have control over it," she realized.

She let the vision fade, and gradually her awareness returned to the familiar space of the audience chamber.

Hemlock felt the renewed pressure of the floor on the soles of her feet–a pressure which she realized had been absent a moment before. Had her feet left the floor during her vision?

All around her, the assembled fighters were regarding her with awe.

Even Samberlin, standing close as Hemlock made eye contact with him, looked surprised.

Hemlock saw the Senator gather himself, and stand erect.

"Who among you still does not understand?" he asked, in his clear and strong voice.

No one responded.

##  Chapter Twenty Nine

Hemlock was very conscious of the warmth of the Wand in her hands. She was also still dimly conscious of the strange place that she could travel to within her mind. She knew that with the Wand in her possession, she could return her mind to that realm at will, should she desire to do so. Her instinct told her she would be able to summon help from those other beings that lived in that realm whenever she needed it.

Samberlin was speaking to the assembled fighters. "This is a time of change and we must not shrink before the force of this change, no matter how unexpected it may be. I come before you today to proclaim this: that Hemlock is the new leader of the Wizard Guild."

There was a stunned silence, and then a great ruckus erupted from the wizards.

A wizard, bolder than most, stood forward and yelled accusingly, "Why should we follow Hemlock? She's not even a wizard. Falignus had her imprisoned prior to leaving with the expeditionary force!"

Samberlin turned his attention to the man. "Yet here she is, free–can you deny that some force works within her and that it has seen her through great trials? Whatever differences she may have had with Falignus were in another context. Circumstances have changed. You would probably all be dead at the hands of Gwineval were it not for her. Not one among you can now stand against her will. You have no leaders left, either you follow her, or the Senate or the Tanna Varrans will take control of the Tower. Is that what you want?"

"There is another choice," yelled a voice from the direction of the open drawbridge. The throng of Senate knights parted as a dark figure strolled forward. As he emerged from the shadows and drew back his hood, Hemlock recognized him with a start; the sneering features of Falignus were now visible to all.

"Interesting," muttered Samberlin.

Falignus looked at Hemlock and the sneer left his features. "Hemlock, you have the Wand. Now is the time to take your place at my side."

Hemlock shook her head sadly, "You know I can't," she said.

Falignus reddened with anger.

"Samberlin, let us unite our forces and kill these Tanna Varrans while we can!" Falignus called boldly.

Hemlock turned to Samberlin to see how he would react.

Samberlin's gaze lingered on Falignus and then moved slowly across the room as he appeared to consider the offer, which was delivered forcefully enough to fall just short of being a command.

"I think not!" Samberlin pronounced in response, at which several wizards gasped.

"You old fool!" cried Falignus. "I'll destroy you and the entire Senate! Remember the Night of the Ninety-Nine Tears! It can happen again!"

"Oh, I have thought long and hard on the events of that night, and it is precisely because of that night that I will not support you any longer. The wizards will no longer hold the City in a strangle hold. They will no longer control all magic," replied Samberlin.

Falignus smiled coldly, as great black batwings extended from his back and spread out many feet in each direction.

"So, you've had this little plan all along, have you, Samberlin? Well, it is amusing to see it finally revealed. You think that you are so smart. Do you think that Hemlock will protect you from me? She's just a girl: greatly talented, but untrained and raw. Where she now dabbles in the old magic of the Imperator, I shall master it. When I return to the City, all who oppose me shall be reduced to ruin. My new order cannot rise from the City as it is now, that much is clear. All must be destroyed, and I will start afresh."

Falignus began to withdraw from the room, as all considered his threat.

Several knights looked toward Samberlin as if wondering whether to attack the retreating Wizard, but Samberlin gave no such order.

"You wizards who have followed me loyally, do what you must to survive until I return. Do not despair, for the wait will not be long!" cried Falignus. He then turned and leapt out the front gate and into the air, his bat wings beating strongly as he flew out into the dark night.

...

Hemlock sat in a fine ivory chair, feeling out of place in her torn, blood-stained dress. The stench of the battle in the Wizard Tower still clung to her. A potato sack had been placed under her so that she wouldn't stain the fine embroidered seat of the chair. The room in which she sat was in a wing of a large home in the Elite district. White, painted wainscoting lent the space a restrained dignity which Hemlock admired. It was the home of the Duke who had taken in Mercuria under the direction of Falignus.

Her sister sat across from her looking worried and radiant at the same time as Hemlock stared at her.

Hemlock had just arrived and had been reunited with her sister, who now seemed like a different person to Hemlock. Hemlock had always perceived Mercuria through the lens of Mercuria's illness. Now that that illness had apparently been cured, Hemlock was able to appreciate her sister without feeling uneasy or apprehensive about her taking sick; Hemlock was left feeling a profound sense of peace.

She had demanded to see her sister as soon as Falignus had fled the battle at the Wizard Tower. Over the objections of Samberlin, Hemlock had insisted on going straight to Mercuria in order to make sure that Falignus hadn't harmed her.

As she sat, content to simply look at her sister without speaking, Hemlock recalled a small exchange that she had upon leaving the Wizard Tower to find Mercuria. She had left the Tower under the control and command of Tored, whom she trusted. As she had walked past the gritty warrior, he had said to her, "I hope we did not go through all of this simply to crown another Witch Queen."

Hemlock had responded dismissively, but the comment was still on her mind.

Returning her attention to the present, she realized that Mercuria was speaking to her. "Hemlock, I can't imagine how you must have suffered. Is it true that you have been declared the new leader of the wizards?"

"Yes, although I can't say I'm very comfortable in the role," responded Hemlock.

There was another period of silence.

Hemlock again noted the warmth of the Wand of the Imperator. "Look, I need to take you back to the Wizard Tower until I resolve...a situation."

Mercuria looked taken aback as she replied: "I...I don't know what to say. I suppose you must have your reasons, but I...I am frightened at the prospect of leaving. I've been happy here and these people have been like a family to me. Can't I stay here with them?"

"No, it's too dangerous. Do you remember the wizard, Falignus? He knows that you are here and he is now my professed enemy. I need you to stay somewhere that I know is safe–at least for a time."

Mercuria's brow furrowed and she looked increasingly upset to Hemlock. Hemlock realized that she had not seen Mercuria angry for many years–but she felt certain that this was the emotion that was now rendered on Mercuria's face.

"Does it matter what I want?" Mercuria asked in a voice that did not reflect her apparent level of emotion.

"What do you want? You have to appreciate the danger that you would face if you stay. And not just you–your new family would be in danger, too."

"I understand that. That's why I'll go back to our apartment in the Warrens and wait this out."

"Absolutely not, Mercuria! Falignus saw our apartment in my dream and he might try to find you there. I need you under guard for just a few days," Hemlock argued.

"Hemlock, I don't want that. I've tasted true freedom for the first time over these past several weeks. I'd rather die than be confined again–whether it is confinement by disease or by fear."

"Mercuria, I am tired and I have great deeds yet to do. I can't worry about this any longer. You will do as I say."

Mercuria let the full force of her anger show then. "I knew this life was too good to be true! And now I finally see my sister again, only to realize that she is hardly the same person that I remember."

"You have changed and I have changed, and neither of us for the worse. I have power now–power to keep you safe permanently. Please let me use it!" Hemlock pleaded.

"I see the power in your eyes, Hemlock. It scares me. It is too much power."

Hemlock watched emotions play over her sister's face. She noted that Mercuria was young and just at the threshold of womanhood. Hemlock could see that her sister was struggling to assert her own will, despite wanting to make Hemlock happy.

Hemlock's every thought pleaded with Mercuria not to be naïve and stubborn, but she did not remonstrate her sister out loud.

Hemlock saw Mercuria's jaw set and she knew that her sister had made up her mind.

"I won't do it, Hemlock. If someone wants to harm me, then so be it," Mercuria stated obstinately.

Hemlock lost her patience for debate.

"Samberlin!" she called into the foyer.

The Senator had been waiting at a respectful distance with the Duke, who now acted as Mercuria's stepfather. Both of the men entered the parlor, where the two sisters sat.

"Samberlin, take Mercuria back to the Tower–use force if necessary."

Mercuria shot an incendiary look at Hemlock.

"Hemlock, who are you?" cried Mercuria.

"I don't have time for this now, Mercuria!"

"I don't even know you anymore. You haven't even taken the time to explain things to me."

"Right, because I don't have the time. I know that you will be safe. That means the world to me. But I have to go away to face our enemy soon."

Mercuria looked pleadingly at the Duke, but his facial expression made it clear to Hemlock that he would not attempt to intervene.

Samberlin had two knights take Mercuria by the arm and escort her out of the room. The Duke followed, leaving Hemlock and Samberlin alone.

"So you'll go after Falignus then?" he asked.

"Yes, it's the only way. I know what he's planning to do."

"He's going to retrieve another Wand?"

Hemlock looked at the Senator sharply. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. But I guessed, based on his comments. I gather that few could face you now without an item of similar power."

Hemlock did not deny the assertion.

"Hemlock, let us return to the Tower and meet with the others. All must be made to feel a part of this decision, even if it is already made."

...

Hemlock felt a bit awkward as she sat at the jet black meeting table of the Wizard Council. Samberlin, Tored and the wizard Miara were seated with her.

Hemlock noted the deep yellow bruising on Miara's face that had resulted from the blow which she had delivered only hours before.

Hemlock was weary after the events of the evening, and her stamina was still diminished from her time in the wizard's prison cell. But Samberlin had insisted that they meet to discuss their course of action before anyone retired for the evening.

"I believe that I know what Falignus will attempt to do," Hemlock told the assembled leaders.

"He mentioned to me that he believes there is another Wand in the forbidden desert to the north. I think he will seek out the wand in hopes of using it to defeat me, and then you all as well," she continued.

Hemlock looked around the table. Tored nodded and grunted. Miara raised her head and her eyes to the ceiling, as if in thought. Samberlin nodded slightly, his gaze still distasteful to Hemlock, even though they were now at least circumstantial allies.

Miara made eye contact with Hemlock. "Why not wait for Gwineval to recover? The healers say that it might only be a few days."

"You saw Falignus' wings. He will be able to reach the desert quickly. If we wait any longer, then we risk letting Falignus gain the Wand that he seeks. I fear that Falignus will be able to use the Wand more effectively than I will. He seems confident in that," Hemlock replied.

"I agree," added Samberlin. "If I know Falignus, he's been plotting the retrieval of that Wand for some time. He will have studied its powers well by now. And no Wizard can compare to Falignus, we know that. Not even Gwineval. Hemlock has unique powers, but we do not yet understand them. I think it's better to try to defeat Falignus before he is able to gain that Wand."

"But how will you get there in time?" asked Tored.

"I have an idea for that," responded Hemlock. "Safreon befriended a Griffin who lives in secret in the eastern mountains. Her name is Penelope. I watched him summon her and I believe that, with the help of the wizards, I can duplicate that spell. If she answers the call and agrees to help, I will ride her in pursuit of Falignus."

"Wait, I assumed you would teleport? You can't go alone, Hemlock," cautioned Samberlin.

"We have no teleporters calibrated for the desert. It would require many hours to do that and still be dangerous because we do not know the geography of the region well," responded Miara.

Hemlock noted that Samberlin was looking increasingly concerned.

"If Hemlock fails, then we will be facing Falignus with two Wands, not one. Perhaps this isn't the correct course of action, given that risk. I believed that Tored or some other wizards should be able to accompany Hemlock," Samberlin said.

"He does have a point, Hemlock. If you take this path alone and you fail, then we are doomed," added Tored.

Hemlock considered these words for a moment. She contemplated the possible consequences of her failure. Her sister would be at the mercy of Falignus. Tored, Gwineval, the Tanna Varrans, and everyone that she had known in the Warrens would all be subjugated to Falignus' will.

_And he'll know how to use the Wand–he could be unstoppable_ , she thought to herself.

She closed her eyes and turned within, into that place that she was now able to see with the power of the Wand. She felt for the now familiar presences which felt close to her in the strange, infinite space outside of her normal experience.

She sent a message to them asking them about her dilemma. Somehow she was able to communicate the subtleties of her circumstances easily. She watched as the energy left her and travelled over the tendrils to these neighboring spirits.

Their replies came swiftly and were uniform in their opinions.

"You must face your nemesis alone, and quickly," they said to her. They sent Hemlock information about their lives, which paralleled hers in many ways, but with odd differences. In each instance, they had faced some great opponent who had sought an artifact of power. They had overcome the opponent only because they had been able to deny them the use of the artifact.

"Look to the lives of those who failed to do this," they said.

Hemlock realized then that she could look into the other consciousnesses that were close to her, but who were not reaching out to her. She did so and saw that some were earlier in the progression of their lives than her. Some were later. She did see that those whose great opponents had been able to use their artifacts ended up dominating her counterparts in those realms–to disastrous effect.

She realized something and pointed it out to the others with whom she communicated. "None have loved their nemesis, as I do."

"That is your unique burden," was their reply, which was accompanied by a wave of compassion which washed over Hemlock.

Hemlock sent a message of thanks and returned her attention to the material world.

She was conscious again of a receding feeling of buoyancy in her body as she looked over the faces of those seated with her.

"How long was I concentrating?" she asked.

"For as long as it would take to walk the circumference of the Lake," responded Samberlin.

"Really?" asked Hemlock. In her estimation, she had only retreated into her mind for a few moments.

"I have determined what must be done," Hemlock said.

The three who sat with her were impassive. "I must face Falignus alone."

"Why, Hemlock?" asked Samberlin. "Caution would dictate otherwise."

"I now have sight beyond sight. I have seen what could happen if Falignus is allowed to get the Wand first. We will not defeat him if he does."

Miara frowned. "I, too, favor the cautious approach. Hemlock, you have only wielded that Wand for mere hours. Gwineval, when he wakes, will be able to help you to further realize its power. Or perhaps he could wield it himself."

Samberlin nodded. "I agree with Miara, Hemlock. This is not the time to be impetuous."

Hemlock was unmoved. She had never felt surer of a decision in her life, after seeing what she had seen in those other parallel realms about the lives crushed by the one who played the role similar to that of Falignus in her life. But she couldn't find a way to put the things that she had seen into words.

"Tored?" Hemlock asked, looking at the warrior. He looked reticent, and did not answer at first.

Hemlock did not avert her gaze, and finally the warrior spoke.

"I believe that we are now in Hemlock's hands," he said, looking at Samberlin and Miara. He then turned to Hemlock. "You have been given power, and now, you alone, must decide how to exercise that power."

Hemlock had already made her decision, but his words emboldened her somewhat.

"I will leave tonight to pursue Falignus," she said flatly.

Miara was defiant. "And what if we don't aid you in summoning the Griffin?"

Hemlock looked at her and responded calmly. "You will."

Miara blanched under Hemlock's gaze.

Hemlock turned to Samberlin, and for the first time, she thought she saw a hint of fear in his eyes.

...

"Place the lanterns all around the baluster," directed Hemlock, her voice carrying strongly in the cold night air.

Wizards fanned out around the balcony at the top of the Tower, following her instructions.

Miara and Samberlin were both frowning as they stood beside her.

"Hemlock, the people will not understand this display," commented Samberlin.

"Oh, I think they might."

"We haven't had time to explain the attack on the Tower to them yet. This will scare them," the Senator replied.

"Hemlock, people are used to the Wizard Tower being a silent bastion of strength for the City. They don't need to see this," cautioned Miara.

"You are out of touch, Miara. The Wizard Tower is a symbol of fear to most people. That is what I aim to dispel tonight–at least in part," said Hemlock.

The placement of the lanterns was soon complete and Hemlock walked to the baluster of the balcony and looked down over the City below. Despite the late hour, people were gathering and looking up at the Tower. There were crowds forming in both the Elite district and the Warrens. People in the Elite district were moving onto the path around Hemisphere Lake to get as close to the Tower as possible.

"This is good," Hemlock thought, "I want them to see what free magic looks like."

Hemlock was aware that Miara and Samberlin had moved up behind her and had joined her again. She heard another set of footsteps then and saw that Tored had also emerged from the interior of the Tower and was at hand.

"Hemlock, we have raised the drawbridge with the help of the wizards," Tored said and then he paused uncomfortably before continuing, "There is terrible magic in the gatehouse."

"Yes, I know. We need to destroy it," muttered Hemlock, still distracted by the crowds.

"I will pursue that immediately," replied Tored.

"You'll leave the Tower defenseless!" cried Miara.

"Yes, Hemlock, again I counsel you to exercise caution in how much change that you allow the people to be conscious of. Change breeds chaos and chaos can breed rebellion. It could embolden criminals in the Warrens–what, with you and Safreon now gone–who or what now keeps the peace but fear of the authority of the wizards and the senate? The senate can't police the Warrens, and the criminals know it," lectured Samberlin.

"More like the senate won't police the Warrens," responded Hemlock, "I've seen your knights. They could be used as a police force."

"That would be unpopular. Those are the sons of noble houses. War is glorious. Police duty is not," said Samberlin.

Hemlock shook her head. "I can see that we have a lot of work to do when I return."

"You think that you can change things without consequence. I am trying to point out what these consequences would be. A study of government is a study of the history of unintended consequences," replied the Senator.

"Hemlock, I implore you: do not destroy anything in the Tower before you return and we can discuss it at length," said Miara.

"Fine... fine. Tored, please obey her instructions in this. Now, Miara, gather the wizards for the casting of the spell. Place them around the balcony so that all can witness the casting," commanded Hemlock.

Miara sighed in response, cast Hemlock a look of resigned frustration, and then walked off and began issuing instructions to the assembled wizards.

Soon the wizards began to chant in unison. A warm, green light bathed the top of the Wizard Tower then, eliciting a gasp from the crowd below.

Miara gestured to Hemlock.

Hemlock began to reach out to the Griffin with her mind.

The chanting and the green light continued for many minutes.

Suddenly there was a stir in the crowd. People were crying out and pointing upwards.

Hemlock turned and saw that the Griffin was approaching. It was a dark silhouette against the bright, full moon.

Soon the Griffin reached the Tower, and it landed on the balustrade near Hemlock and her companions.

"Hello, Hemlock," said an elemental voice in her mind. She knew that it was the Griffin speaking to her through the power of the wizard spell.

"Hello. I need your help," Hemlock said simply.

"Is he gone, then?"

Hemlock knew instantly who the Griffin was referring to. She felt a wave of emotion at the reminder of the fate of Safreon.

"Yes. He is gone. He fell heroically during a battle in the Witch Crags."

"Somehow...I knew that he was gone."

"He died trying to save the Tanna Varrans from the wizards and from an evil Witch," explained Hemlock. She then quickly explained the events that had transpired since the death of Safreon.

"Will you help me to pursue Falignus?" Hemlock asked finally.

"Long have I lived. Your lives are brief: like the passage of a moon for me. I remember the old Wizard. We agreed to join him. He kept us safe. But then the other came and hunted us. All of my kind were slain. I chose to die rather than flee. But somehow I stayed hidden. Then your friend found me. He hunted me for many years. I grew weary and let him find me. He spoke to me about the City. He hoped to return to the old ways. He made me hope. I think you are his greatest hope. And because of this, I still hope. I will help you."

"Thank you," Hemlock replied, "I know that Safreon cared for you and would appreciate that you are helping me."

The Griffin bowed to Hemlock.

Hemlock heard the sound of a small sniffle behind her, turned, and saw tears streaming down Miara's face.

"Miara?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," said Miara as she wiped tears from her cheeks, "it's just that I remember the last time that I saw a creature like this."

"I was just an initiate wizard then. Zaringer, who was then the head of the Seventh Circle, led an expedition of wizards into the mountains to hunt a dragon. He said that it was evil and that it was menacing the mining communities that were close to its lair."

"We travelled for a few days and reached the lair. When the beast emerged, I was struck by its beauty. It carried itself with a pride and grace not unlike this Griffin does. It did not attack us, but instead tried to escape. Zaringer had planned for this, though. We cast spells of confinement on it before it could fly away."

"As it lay there, helpless, I began to take pity on it. It didn't seem evil to me and it hadn't reacted violently when we surprised it. But I was too scared to say anything."

"We put it to sleep and took it back to the Tower. Zaringer did terrible things to it. Terrible," said Miara, her voice trailing off to a whisper as she concluded.

"Maybe we should open the Tower and destroy the gate after all. Let's end this evil here and now," said Hemlock, moved to anger by Miara's tale.

"Don't be rash!" replied Samberlin. "The people already have a great deal of change to digest. If you destroy the authority of the Tower, then there will be no authority over magic. There will be a surge in spell casting and there will be accidents. There will likely be violence. You can't destroy an institution overnight without chaotic repercussions. If you truly wish to destroy the influence of the Tower, then it must be done gradually so that there will not be any disorder."

"I think Samberlin is right, Hemlock," interjected Tored, "this situation is tenuous as it stands. We cannot afford panic or chaos in the streets on top of our current challenges. We need to maintain order until you return."

"All right, we will wait, then," said Hemlock, taking the counsel of Tored to heart.

Hemlock returned her attention to the Griffin.

The white, eagle-like head of the Griffin took on a silvery hue in the moonlight, as she watched it. Something about the scene made Hemlock reflective, and she suddenly experienced a great feeling of loss for all of the magical creatures that the Imperator and the wizards had destroyed.

"We will return this realm to a safe place for your kind to live. You have my word on that," Hemlock expressed to the Griffin with her thoughts.

"Thank you. I hope that we will succeed," responded the beast.

With that, the Griffin descended from the balustrade and stood on the balcony. It dipped its front shoulder.

Hemlock got onto its back with a graceful vault.

The Griffin began to beat its wings and took to the air.

Hemlock met the eyes of Tored, Samberlin and Miara in turn as the Griffin climbed higher and higher. Each of them bade her farewell and she felt a weight of responsibility for each of them and for the entire City.

Some people clapped and cheered in the crowds below the Tower, as she flew over them and then moved northward into the night.

##  Chapter Thirty

Hemlock clung desperately to the back of the proud Griffin as it flew into a maelstrom. The desert had erupted into a violent sand storm and the Griffin was struggling to fly in the face of it. Had it not been for the great, graceful power of the beast, Hemlock thought that the passage would have been impossible.

Hemlock was hooded and passed over the barren sand dunes looking like little more than a formless sack being carried as cargo. With her back bowed and her head down, she persevered as the Griffin struggled on relentlessly. Hemlock felt that dark wizard magic, such as she had experienced at the Emerald Stair, was all around her, even seeping into her; yet her robe kept enough of the sensation at bay that her mind was able to clearly focus on one concept: press on.

Sands billowed and blew in the wind and galloped in clouds through the air like stampeding horses. It bit her face and hands–and even her torso at times–when it penetrated the robe.

Her jaw was set in a resolute clench.

She knew that if she faltered now that the sacrifices that had been made by Safreon and by the Tanna Varrans would all be meaningless.

"Falignus must be stopped," she thought to herself over and over again, like a mantra.

After an indeterminate period of time had passed, something became visible in the violently turbulent sands before her.

The ancient visages of the stone buildings that she sought came slowly into focus below her. Mercuria had explained what little was known of the desert region to Hemlock prior to her departure. These buildings were the only known landmarks in the desert. Hemlock hoped that Falignus hadn't been headed to another unknown location, but she shrugged off that feeling of pessimism like a bit of sand in her cloak.

"This must be the place," she muttered to the Griffin, thinking that it would never hear her over the incredible din of the storm.

But it reacted like it did.

Struggling mightily, the beast managed a hard, but controlled landing near the ruined buildings. The buildings were round and ringed in large ivory columns. Within the columns were smooth walls that were punctuated by large arched doorways.

The doorways looked like crude eyes and with them the buildings seemed to stare implacably over the hissing desert sands. Their stone was chipped and scarred; their beauty and grandeur having been marred by some conflagration and the passage of time, made more cruel by the abrasive sand and the wind. As Hemlock beheld them, something about their structure suggested that these buildings were in fact the tops of huge towers, the full length of which stood below the sands in their full stature. Upon further inspection, she felt sure that the buildings probably did extend down, for the structures before her were pointed at the top like spires and they were ringed with what appeared to be balconies that were only now interrupted by collapsed sections.

Turning to the Griffin, Hemlock made a request which nearly broke her heart, for she knew what she was asking the noble and beautiful creature to endure, should it accept her request.

"Can you wait for me?" Hemlock asked, knowing that she might not make it back to the City without the continued aid of the creature, assuming that she managed to defeat Falignus.

The Griffin nodded in acceptance, leaving Hemlock to seek shelter under the overhang of the far building.

Hemlock noticed for the first time that a terrible and familiar un-light emanated from within the building before her. In fact, it seemed to be the source of the death magic that she had perceived, and even the storm itself, may have emanated from within that terrible structure, whose original beauty Hemlock now perceived as tangibly malevolent in its current weathered and forlorn state.

Hemlock suddenly felt like she was no longer alone.

She pulled back her hood and winced in pain as the sand bit into her head and face.

A shimmering image of Falignus had appeared to her right.

"Hemlock," spoke the image of Falignus haltingly, and as if at a great distance from her, "I am imprisoned inside. A terrible evil is in there. You must help me."

Hemlock made to respond, but an exclamation of pain from Falignus interrupted her.

"Beware of his words, Hemlock. Do not heed them. You must help me to defeat him. Otherwise all is lost for both of us."

The image faded away before Hemlock could say a word in response.

_What is happening?_ she wondered, grasping the Wand of the Imperator more tightly in her hands.

She waited for several seconds to see if the image of Falignus would appear again, but it did not. A low rumbling thunder originating from the building before her was the only sound that punctuated the howling wind.

Hemlock strode forward toward the building and vaulted over one of the balconies, noting the remains of cunning scroll work which had once adorned it, but which was now almost worn flat.

As she entered through one of the open portals, the blowing sands abated and revealed a fine marble floor whose beauty was little diminished by the storms without.

Stepping down a passage and around a corner, Hemlock entered a large chamber, which seemed to occupy the entire interior of the structure.

Hemlock's eyes quickly adjusted to the comparative darkness of the interior, and she beheld a chamber that was lit dimly by a number of red lanterns.

In the center of the chamber was an altar, above which a second Wand of the Imperator hung in a dark red field of magic. Seven stone sculptures that had been fashioned after human arms reached out from that central altar, along the floor and spaced evenly around the circumference of the chamber; and each ended in a huge, finely sculpted hand. Each of the hands held a beautiful onyx sarcophagus, raised slightly above the floor. Deep blue sparks radiated out from the suspended Wand and down the length of one of the arms, into the dark vessel that was borne by the hand.

Near one of the sarcophagi, Hemlock saw two forms locked in a magical struggle.

One was Falignus. He was enclosed in a defensive magical field.

The other figure was something that Hemlock had never seen before.

Hemlock could only consider the creature that struggled with Falignus as the absolute antithesis of the Griffin. Hemlock thought that no being could have had a more terrible appearance than that of the Witch, once her illusion of magical beauty had been pierced, but the disembodied creature which menaced Falignus seemed to embody the malice of every jealous thought, the sorrow of every shattered dream and the fear of every nightmare.

Its limbs were terrible shadows of despair, molded through some infernal process into the semblance of a mortal form. Its legs seemed like they were cast from the grief of every funeral procession. Its head was the shadow and reflection of every fear and desire that might torment mortal man. Its body had the appearance of having been a vessel for every affliction, malady and degenerate excess that could ever exist.

A surge of fear and an unquenchable desire for peace ripped through Hemlock as she beheld this creature, which was an abomination beyond anything that she could have ever conceived. Even the bizarre creature that Safreon had summoned below the Tanna Varran town had been less disturbing to Hemlock than this amalgamation of decayed flesh.

She reeled under the horror of the creature's visage, and nearly dropped to her knees.

Only an abstract realization that Falignus was at risk of being killed snapped her out of her dark reverie.

She wasn't sure what to do, but instinct took over. She knew that whatever threat Falignus represented was easily eclipsed by that of this dark creature.

Mastering herself, she saw that the creature was emanating a dark ray and that the magical barrier that Falignus had erected was failing. She could see Falignus, his face contorted in agony. His eyes met hers, and she saw a desperate hope ignite in them.

Falignus did not speak to her, could not. But his eyes clearly communicated to her a single emphatic message: "HELP!"

Just then a voice rang out in Hemlock's mind, unbidden. She experienced this voice like the embodiment of every dark fear that she had ever had found a voice and was now speaking to her: " _Bow before me, girl_!"

Hemlock felt like her mind was being torn asunder by the voice. It was all she could do to remain standing under the force of its power.

" _You meddle in powers that you do not understand. You cannot stop what has been set in motion. We will be eternal. We will travel the multiverse as Gods. How many voices have cried out to the heavens and received silence in response? Soon we will answer. You will be a part of it: our little dark princess who will laugh at the groveling of the weak. You were born to do this, daughter of the Wizard._ "

A vision was thrust upon Hemlock then. She saw herself dressed in a dark, shimmering gown that was composed of entire worlds. The cries of the suffering were wrapped around her form like an intricate sash and brought her great pleasure as she caressed its length.

It took all of Hemlock's will, even buoyed by the power of the Wand in her hand, to approach and strike out at the creature.

Her rapier passed through its dark form, and it did not seem aware of the striking. But where her blade had passed, its form became less dark and there was a flicker of light, which, though brief, seemed to perturb the beast.

Without warning, it cried out, and turned on Hemlock. Hemlock, later in life, would always be haunted by the eyes of the beast as they determined to extinguish her life force. They were dark: so dark that they hurt her eyes.

Hemlock felt powerless as the creature enclosed her in a deathly embrace. She felt that her life was draining from her like water draining from a pierced flask.

But the Wand that she held burned brightly, and she felt life force pouring into her from that secret place which she had recently discovered. Whether the help was being given willingly, or taken, she could not tell. But the creature of malice before her, try as it might, could not seem to pull out the last glimmer of life from her body.

Hemlock sank to her knees, and the dark form dropped with her. She began to feel like she would not be able to sustain the volume of energy that was passing through her without being torn apart. Her muscles had all tensed up and soon she became aware that she was having a seizure on the floor, and had dropped her blade. The Wand somehow remained in her hand, however. She felt its power still protecting her and allowing the aid of the other dimensions to reach her.

Then everything went black.

Hemlock awoke with a start. She still lay on the marble floor, but the fell apparition that had attacked her was gone. Great boulders of stone and piles of sand were all around her, and where there had been a stone ceiling above her, she now saw the dark clouds of the stormy desert, now illuminated by the first rays of dawn. The fury of the storm seemed to be waning.

Hemlock realized that the ceiling had given way as she rose, feeling curious that she had survived. She could not imagine that anyone or anything could have survived the wrath that had been directed at her by that nightmare creature.

Hemlock noticed that the magical altar in the center of the room had been shattered, and that the great stone arms were strewn about the remnants of the chamber, in pieces.

Then she saw another figure rise amongst the debris, some distance from her.

"Falignus," she thought, with a mixture of relief and dread.

Falignus gave her a forced smirk, though he was clearly in pain.

Hemlock moved toward him through the rubble and he did the same. As they got to within several paces of each other, she noted that they both walked gingerly, although both appeared unhurt save for where the impact of a few falling pieces of rock had bloodied them.

Hemlock realized that Falignus now bore the other Wand of the Imperator and that she still carried hers, although she had not been conscious of it.

"What happened?" Hemlock asked, able to speak more easily as the storm lessened in intensity.

"When Zaringer attacked you, I was able to free the Wand from the altar. When I did that, his power source was extinguished and he was destroyed. His passing was a bit...violent, as you can see."

Hemlock considered his words. "Zaringer," she mouthed.

"Yes; that was Zaringer, my old teacher and mentor. I must thank you. He surely would have slain me had you not arrived."

Hemlock did not reply. She was trying to get her mind around the concept of Falignus being taught by that foul creature.

"I'll start at the beginning. I came here to retrieve the Wand, as you have no doubt guessed; and I sought to slay Zaringer, whom I knew would resist being destroyed by the removal of the Wand," Falignus continued.

"I crept into the chamber and began to cleanse the sarcophagi. I did not have the power to cut off the flow of power from the Wand to them all at once, so I was forced to do it to them one by one. I cast the necessary spell and removed the power from the first sarcophagus. I then threw the cover aside and cast a lightning bolt into it, incinerating the occupant. You can imagine my trepidation when I saw that the victim was not Zaringer–for the others were now so old that they could pose no threat. But Zaringer's malice still burned darkly, as you saw.

"I continued to the next crypt, and then to the next one. Still, I had not found Zaringer, and my fear and anticipation were getting worse. I felt sure that at any moment he would burst forth from one of the undisturbed vessels and confront me."

"Sadly, my worst fears were realized. As I dispatched the occupant of the fifth sarcophagus, I heard the sickening sound of stone grating on stone; and in a moment, he was upon me," said Falignus, his voice trailing off oddly as his tale reached its conclusion.

"But there are seven sarcophagi." noted Hemlock haltingly.

"I know. The final one was meant for me."

Hemlock looked at Falignus questioningly. She then noticed something odd about his appearance. Though his recently evidenced wings were now gone, he was now slightly fuzzy and insubstantial, and she thought that he bore a skeletal appearance when viewed from the corners of her eyes.

"What's happened to you?" she asked, horrified.

"I had to take certain...measures when you turned on me. I had to invoke powers that have a steep cost."

"Why?"

"I had to know what path to take. It's an ability that I have; you might call it a family heirloom. I can view the future, or a set of possible futures. But there is a cost, as you can see," Falignus explained, sounding unusually strained.

"You said family," Hemlock muttered, more to herself than to him.

Overhearing her, Falignus replied, "Yes, I did say family. Zaringer was my father, Hemlock. I am descended from an unbroken line straight from the Imperator himself."

"It's not possible," Hemlock whispered.

"It is. All of these," Falignus swept his arm across the set of ruined sarcophagi, "were my forebears. My father sought to corrupt the Wizard Guild, and in doing so, to restore the full power of the Imperator to our line. But he realized that the Senate was too powerful, and that it would not be accomplished in his lifetime. So he founded the Seventh Circle of magic in secret, delving into research that the other wizards had treated as forbidden."

As he spoke, Hemlock again considered that Falignus was now holding the Wand that had been mounted in the apparatus that had been feeding the crypts. An inner voice again cautioned that he might be unstoppable with that Wand, but she quickly quelled the fear that rose within her.

"Near the end of his ability to retain a normal mortal form," Falignus continued, "he staged a bloodless coup and instituted the Seventh Circle as the de-facto leaders of the Council, shrouded in secrecy. Near death, he had himself perpetuated in this place, along with his ancestors, who he had sought to preserve and one day restore to some semblance of life. He destroyed this entire realm by drawing the magical power from it to sustain his dark arts."

"Despite their horrible nature, how could you set out to do this to them–to your family?" Hemlock asked.

"Their sins repulsed me. I sought to extricate myself from them as a youth, but I realized that if I had wavered from the path that he had set, then my Father would have killed me and sired another. If I had done so later, then he would have taken another in my place, even if it had temporarily broken the bloodline, a Steward, if you will. And he would have found a way to conceive a true heir. No, I had to do this," Falignus replied, darkly.

Again Hemlock eyed the fiery wand that Falignus held, identical to the one that she wielded.

"Falignus, we must destroy these," she said at last.

"No," was his simple reply.

"Why? You had to destroy your family; well, these are the legacy of your family," Hemlock pleaded.

"True enough, but I can change my family's legacy. In fact, I fully intend to," Falignus replied, his voice seeming to go out of phase for a second and then snap back.

"How can you say that? Have these wands ever done anything besides spread authoritarian control and violent exploitation of the weak?"

"They are a tool–that is all. They do not corrupt, they merely magnify. They can be a force for change–positive change."

"Look at yourself, Falignus, you are already corrupted. Don't deceive yourself," Hemlock said, weeping gently.

"Will you stand against me, then?" Falignus responded in a melancholy voice.

Hemlock considered this question.

"Everything in my life has built up to this one question. Everything that Safreon taught me. I see now that it was needed to prepare me for this," she thought.

She considered her love for him, the only romantic love that she had ever known, and marveled at it. She still didn't understand the connection that she felt with him, but its force was undeniable.

But Hemlock recalled Merit's tale and the path that Safreon had taken. She now felt a new force of responsibility compelling her to make a choice that transcended her personal desires.

"Yes, I will stand against you," she finally responded.

Falignus did not seem surprised.

"I suspected as much. I have foreseen it. Despite our love for one another, we cannot be together. We are polar opposites, you and I. I used to fantasize that you were descended from a royal line similar to my own: a Princess from another world. But I saw differently in my recent visions and it became clear to me. You are descended from the original Wizard; the founder of the City. That is where your powers originate from, and why you seem imbued with the chaotic nature of the City. My line and your line, we have always battled. I suspect that we fought even before the City existed. It is very ironic that we love each other as we do. It is perfectly tragic."

"It can be different, Falignus."

"Sadly, Hemlock, seeing the future curses one with a cold pragmatism. It can't be different. I know that it can't," he said softly.

She saw his features harden, then, in an instant, and the fire within his Wand flared violently.

Suddenly a green barrier surrounded her, impeding her movements.

Even thusly impaired, her speed was well beyond that of a normal mortal, and she darted behind a fallen column.

The green field moved with her, however.

Falignus called from where he had been standing, "I had plenty of time to consider how I'd approach this battle, although I feared that the Wand might require some study to use. I can see now that my fears were unfounded. I thought about how I could fight someone with speed and strength greater than my own."

As he boasted, Hemlock leapt out from the cover and jumped in his direction.

She cursed to herself as she saw that the green magic had cut down her speed just enough to allow Falignus to dodge her flying sidekick.

She landed hard, and before she got back under cover, he cast another spell. She now saw a red field surrounding her legs, layered outside of the green field.

"My legs are burning with fatigue," she thought to herself, cursing again.

"I realized that by using the Wand I could imprison you in a series of permanent wards," he continued.

Hemlock tested her legs and with the level of magical fatigue and artificial slowness, she wondered how she could now fight Falignus.

She heard him attempting to circle around her position, seeking an angle to cast another spell on her.

She was able to look through a hole in the broken column before her and saw that he was moving toward a spot where she might be able to take cover behind a piece of one of the sarcophagi.

Relying heavily on her upper body, which was still not affected by the fatigue magic, she vaulted with superhuman strength over the fallen pillar.

A spell rang out from Falignus, but it missed her.

She landed as she had hoped, behind the fragment of the obsidian tomb and within striking range of Falignus.

She heard him curse and shuffle backwards.

Grabbing the top of the sarcophagi, she launched herself again, but this time Falignus aimed his spell true as she soared downwards toward him.

She did land on target, despite being struck by the magic, and was able to deliver a powerful blow to his face as she landed. But she realized, to her horror, that a red field of magic now encased her upper body as well, magnifying the terrific fatigue which her legs had already been subjected to and bathing her arms in it as well.

She fell over under the strain of the cumulative magical effects on her body.

She saw that Falignus had also fallen under the force of her heavy punch, but he had remained conscious.

He rose unsteadily, and blood poured from his nose and mouth.

Still, he managed an obscene grin as he beheld the results of his spellcasting.

Hemlock was now nearly paralyzed under the weight of his spells.

Falignus was cautious, though. He cast another green field around her and outside of that another red field around her upper and lower body.

The spells were so powerful that she became aware of her heart struggling to beat, and the simple act of breathing became a heavy labor for her.

Falignus looked at her calmly, a sad expression gradually coming over his face.

Hemlock saw the unmistakable glimmer of tears on his cheek, as he regarded her.

Finally, he spoke. "I can't let you live. I can't. I know you'll come after me."

As Hemlock lay there, weakening, she was tempted to give up and accept whatever fate Falignus chose for her. But her spirit rebelled and she quickly began a desperate consideration of how she could escape her predicament.

She still held the wand, and it still imbued her with strange and inexplicable power.

She thought back to past magic spells that her power of attunement had allowed her to identify. Hemlock realized that she could now recall every spell that she had ever encountered in perfect detail. She could recall and sense every magical pattern vividly in her memory.

It must be the Wand.

Falignus was still watching her as she lay there.

I can't move. But my senses are still intact. And I can speak.

Her mind immediately focused on the one magical ability that she had observed used on the battlefield to great effect, and which had only required the power of speech. With a thrill of hope, Hemlock recalled how she had recently used the vocal command power of the Witch, albeit crudely, during the battle in the Wizard Tower audience chamber.

She now knew what she had to do–but she knew that she would need more energy.

She focused her mind toward that other realm within her mind, and sought the aid of those consciousnesses who would answer her call. There were only a few replies and those that answered did so weakly; Hemlock was aware in that moment that her struggle with the demon form of Zaringer had taken a terrific toll on all the consciousnesses that were connected to her.

Hemlock despaired that there was no help left for her.

But then she felt immense gratitude as energy surged into her for a final, desperate attack on Falignus.

" _Someday you will help us as we have helped you_ ," she heard in her mind, as if it had been spoken by a chorus of inchoate voices.

She returned her attention to Falignus, resolute in the awareness of her plan, yet still affected by the tragedy of their shared circumstances.

The energy of that other space burned within her and she directed it to her voice and specifically to her tongue. She recalled the Witch's voice and how she had inflected her terrible commands, which withered people's minds.

She struggled against the magical bonds to draw in a deep, final breath and hoped that it would be enough to deliver the command forcefully.

"RELEASE!" she cried at Falignus and that cry rang out throughout the entire realm, such was its volume.

She saw Falignus' eyes quickly transition from sorrow to horror as he involuntarily performed the counter spell to the magical bonds which restrained Hemlock.

Freed, she rose in a flash; and before he was able to prepare a spell, she had connected with a round kick to his head and his body crumpled to the sandy remains of the floor of the chamber.

She quickly pulled the other Wand from his grasp, and when she did so she felt a resistance between the Wands. The second Wand did not grant its power to her. She puzzled at this for a moment, but she now possessed both Wands and that was her primary concern.

She stood there for a few moments and looked at the fallen form of her enemy and her lover. His body still had an unreal quality to it, a repulsive quality, but her affection for him overcame the feeling of aversion.

She now felt the weight of the same dilemma that he had struggled with.

"If I let him live, he will come after me."

Suddenly a sharp tremor in the earth quelled her thoughts and threw her violently to the floor.

A great piece of rock sheared from one of the remaining columns fell. It landed hard on Falignus' legs. He did not stir.

Hemlock's first instinct was to run to his aid, and she had to catch herself as she made to try and free him.

A cry from overhead diverted her attention.

Looking up she saw that the Griffin was descending from the gray sky. She heard urgency expressed in its cry. That urgency triggered a memory of something that Miara had said to her before she had left, "Once the Wand is removed, the desert realm will separate from the City. You must escape before that happens or you will be lost to us."

The Griffin landed on a large piece of the ivory floor and cried again, urgently.

Hemlock was conflicted as she looked again at Falignus.

Will he live? Can he live now that he's corrupted himself?

Her thoughts turned darker. _Should I kill him? If I don't, will he become what Zaringer was?_

But she thought of Safreon then, of what he had said to her about the future.

"In the future," he had said, "people will settle disputes with words and not swords."

Inspired by the optimism in those words, Hemlock took a final look at Falignus.

"I hope that you find peace in whatever world you travel to next, my love," she said aloud.

The Griffin cried again, and she turned toward it and mounted it, as another tremor shook the desert.

Overhead the sky changed character, and as the sun rose, Hemlock thought that it took on a different hue every time she glanced at it.

The Griffin flew with a vigor which surprised Hemlock.

Soon she sensed something odd behind them as they flew. Looking behind her, she saw a veil like haze moving toward them in the distance.

But soon, she recognized the outskirts of the City realm ahead of them, in the form of several small villages.

"We made it," she exclaimed to the Griffin, who cried positively in response.

##  Epilogue

Hemlock walked through the caverns beneath the Wizard Tower in search of the waterfall from Merit's tale: the waterfall which hid the entrance to the chamber where Safreon had found the Wand of the Imperator.

She carried both Wands in her hands now and had done so since she had returned–going so far as to sleep with them, so greatly did she fear their power falling into the wrong hands.

As she walked, Gwineval, who had recovered with a rapidity that had stunned everyone, Tored, Samberlin, and Merit accompanied her.

"Hemlock, reconsider this, please. We could make this realm truly extraordinary with the power of those Wands," hissed Gwineval.

"No, Gwineval," replied Hemlock, "I've told you that my mind is made up. The Imperator and his line must be permanently ended. This is the best start to that. We will then continue by detaching the other realms and destroying the Wands that bind them. By so doing, we will return this realm to what the original Wizard meant it to be."

"You have all these visions, and we just have to trust them?" Gwineval asked.

"Yes," replied Hemlock with a smile.

"You are insufferable," chided Gwineval, with more bluster than substance.

"Tored, how soon will you return your people to their realm? Can we delay for the passage of several new moons in order to train the people of the City to use magic without the aid of the Oberon?" asked Hemlock.

Hemlock knew that Tored was still uncomfortable in the role of leader of the Tanna Varrans in a time of peace. She knew that he would find a way to recede into the background at the earliest opportunity. But for now, he bore the responsibility for and the full faith of his people.

"It is fine, Hemlock, we can wait for a time," he replied.

Gwineval's hissing voice rang out from behind the group. "I believe I detect moisture coming from this passage."

Hemlock turned and noticed Merit, who had been eager to accompany them on this journey. He had taken an interest in the history of the realm, and planned to author a volume on the recent and important events that had occurred. He had said that he didn't want to miss out on personally witnessing this latest chapter.

Hemlock smiled at him as she passed and the group diverted into the passage that Gwineval had found.

Soon they all could detect the moisture that Gwineval had reported. Then they could all hear the unmistakable sound of flowing water.

Finally, they emerged into a cavern that bore an unmistakable resemblance to the one that Safreon had described in his tale.

They made their way carefully around the lip of the cavern, all, with the exception of Gwineval, having no desire for an unplanned swim.

Gwineval could not contain himself and declared that he had to sample the waters, despite any danger of beasts that might lurk in the depths.

The more cautious majority proceeded carefully along the narrow path, all the while hearing exclamations from Gwineval on the fine swim that he was having.

When they reached the falls, Hemlock shimmied into the tight space and felt for the rune lock which she had heard described in Safreon's tale as related by Merit.

Finding it, she took out the sticks which she had brought and arranged them in the pattern that her skills of affinity detected, having carefully placed the Wands into her waist belt, on either hip, before doing so.

As the rune lock unlocked, she was certain to grab the Wands, and once she had them safely secured again, she proceeded into the passage that had been revealed.

It was eerie for Hemlock to walk the same path that Safreon had walked, and to consider the great emotion that he had experienced here.

She hoped that her actions today would bring some closure to that pain, if death hadn't already done so for her old friend.

Proceeding under magical light, the group reached the chasm where the platform which had originally borne the first Wand had been cast into the deep by the sentinels.

They all eyed these stone figures cautiously, hoping that the presence of the Wands wouldn't perturb them.

As Hemlock approached the edge of the chasm, she caught Samberlin's eye.

"What do you make of all this, Samberlin? You've been oddly silent"

"I am just making sure that I don't miss anything. This is the first time in my life that I've ever seen anyone willingly revoke great power. Frankly, I hadn't even considered that it was possible. Didn't you mention that Falignus claimed that you are descended from the original Wizard? Maybe that is why you are doing this. Otherwise, it defies all explanation. "

Hemlock shook her head and held out the Wands.

"I've seen what this type of power has done in people's lives. In the hands of some, it might be a great boon. But after seeing Zaringer and what he had become, and then seeing Falignus heading down that same path, it's clear to me that so much concentration of power must be avoided, because eventually it will fall into the hands of those who will misuse it."

"But there will always be concentrations of power, Hemlock. People will always put their faith in leaders and it will build from there. Those Wands are just an extension and manifestation of this faith – of people's tribal nature. This act will not repudiate that basic fact."

Hemlock was troubled by his words, but then she had an idea.

_Why don't I end this adventure the way I started it? I'll follow my instincts and let the intellectuals figure out the details later_ , she thought to herself.

Without a word of warning, she cast the Wands into the chasm.

She watched their fires burn as they fell, until they became indistinguishable from the glow emanating out of the distant, invisible bottom of the chasm.

The others quickly rushed to her side to try and witness the end of the Wands, and some were annoyed that she hadn't warned them.

But then there were two bright flashes from the chasm accompanied by strong reverberations.

Hemlock noticed that even Merit looked satisfied.

Being alone in the inner sanctum of the Wizard Guild–a secretive and reclusive guild of the most powerful wizards in the City–had never been her wish.

She didn't then think that she would remain with Gwineval and the wizards, once the three remaining Wands had all been destroyed.

She wasn't certain what course her life would take from that point onward. But she was all right with that, as the group–composed of a wizard who looked like a lizard, a mechanical gnome, an aging Senator, a reluctant leader and a lithe young woman–gathered to return to the Wizard Tower.

###

Read more about Hemlock's adventures in "Hemlock and the Dead God's Legacy" (The Maker's Fire Book II). Available now!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007ONIDIC

Please read the following excerpt from Book II.

The character of her dream shifted. She was adrift in a sea of stars, floating in the void that separated them. A force was calling out to her and to anyone who would listen. She became conscious of other spirits. Some of them answered the call, some did not.

She became aware that it was a person calling to her, and she felt a compelling affinity with whoever it was.

She acquiesced to the attractive force of the call, and it pulled her with an alarming speed, causing the stars around her to streak as she sped between them.

She reached a world, and then a continent and then a country. Soon she descended into a mountainous area that was rich in plant life. Her consciousness began to merge with the Other that she aided.

She became dimly aware of a wide circle of dancers, their limbs wrenching back and forth almost spasmodically, as if they were trying to evoke something vicious and violent. She saw faces gripped in furious exertion—wide faces with dark skin.

She sensed that she was a part of this dance.

It was a dance of desperation, of anger... of exorcism.

A wide and dark structure loomed between the dancers. It was made of rough stone, which jutted out and recessed inwards in a natural and irregular fashion. But the color of the rock was incongruent with the rest of the surroundings.

The dance took place on a plateau that extended from the side of a vast cliff face. The plateau was reached by a series of treacherous paths that led up from the floor of a long, sinuous canyon. The canyon stretched from horizon to horizon. The climate was temperate: lush foliage and great, broad-leafed trees dominated the perimeter of the plateau. Nothing grew near the dark stone.

Hemlock sensed the thoughts of the Other, as the latter danced.

We should have destroyed this tower long ago. Now something has taken refuge in it and will not come out. It slays our people and threatens our canyon.

Hemlock again sensed the force of the magic of the dance. It was powerful magic, and it was exerting a tremendous energy of expulsion toward whatever was in the tower.

As the dance continued, Hemlock noticed that the Other kept looking at a shadowy recess on one side of the vertical surface of the dark stone.

It appeared to be a doorway.

The next time that Hemlock saw the doorway, a heavy wooden door thrust open from it.

She saw a cloaked figure emerging fitfully, but then the eyes of the Other were drawn away from the spectacle by the path of her violent dance, which had not paused and had not changed in intensity, despite the apparent change in circumstances.

Hemlock realized that she was somehow still able to sense the emergence of the cloaked figure, whose brown hooded garment completely obscured all features from view.

Then the figure pulled back its hood, revealing male features and eyes that shone with a brilliant yellow light—as if they were small suns somehow captured in his head. He wore a bold tricorne hat that barely contained beautiful, curly, blond locks of hair. The cloak opened to reveal blue raiment beneath, in the form of a collared waist cost, with a dark vest, and dark brown knee-length pants, which were met at the knee by soiled, white hose that culminated in heavy leather shoes with prominent gold buckles.

Hemlock had never seen anyone dressed like this, except for actors in her City when they put on dramas set in time of the Imperator. But those costumes were far less elaborate than these clothes. Hemlock was impressed by the man's stately appearance, even as she beheld him in a state of obvious distress as he was being drawn, inexorably, from the interior of the black stone tower.

The dance continued, and the Other seemed to be more determined than ever to continue, though Hemlock sensed that the dance would likely end in the man's death.

"You will stop this barbarous magic immediately! This is not a legal assembly! Ignorance of the law is not an excuse!" cried the man in a shrill voice that projected easily over the plateau and the chanting clamor of the dance.

The Other did not respond.

"It is true that I have taken some of your people—a necessary evil, for I partake of efforts that you would not be able to comprehend! It was all done lawfully, I assure you! And I have rid you of that old crone who dwelt here in secret and murderous isolation. That is just compensation for your lost ones!" the man cried again.

The figure was nearing the ring of dancers, and Hemlock sensed that this line represented a peril for him.

"I warn you, if you do not cease this dance and parley with me, I will be forced to defend myself!" the man cried with increased urgency, as if he was aware of the imminent threat.

The Other continued to dance.

Suddenly the man revealed something from under his cloak: something that bathed the entire plateau in a fiery light.

"I'm afraid that, by law, you must be slain in order to stop this," cried the man, as if speaking directly into the mind of the Other. Hemlock, attached to the Other, heard the threat.

Hemlock experienced a jolt of recognition. The object held by the man was familiar to her.

"What is this?" asked the high voice. Did he sense the magical link between Hemlock and the Other? She doubted that this was possible, yet the impression remained.

In the next instant, the link between her and the Other was broken: shattered into a thousand shards, which painfully reassembled into Hemlock's consciousness.

She was in her bed in the Wizard Tower.

She grasped the sheets of her bed in balled fists, as she considered the final thing that she had seen before the link had been broken.

The strangely dressed figure had wielded a Wand of the Imperator.

Thank you for reading. Please support Indie authors by leaving reviews of books you enjoy.

You can also connect with the author at http://www.wiztower.com.

A glossary of names and places follows on the next page.

##  Glossary of Names and Places

(warning: contains some spoilers)

_Arcos_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the Fourth Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic). Killed at the Battle of Tor Varnos.

_Circles of Magic, First_ _:_ Specialize in the arts of physical warfare.

_Circles of Magic, Second_ _:_ Specialize in the employment of magic for labor and industry.

_Circles of Magic, Third_ _:_ Specialize in the harnessing and storage of magical power.

_Circles of Magic, Fourth_ _:_ Specialize in illusion.

_Circles of Magic, Fifth_ _:_ Specialize in physical alteration and enhancement.

_Circles of Magic, Sixth_ _:_ Specialize in cataloging magical spells.

_Circles of Magic, Seventh_ _:_ Conduct secret research on longevity.

_Colberth_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the Sixth Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic). Ally of Falignus.

_Crimson Order_ _:_ Sect of Wizards loyal to Seventh Circle (see Circles of Magic). Identified by their red sashes worn over wizard robes. Seen by Gwineval as an attempt to undermine the power of the Wizard Council.

_Elite District_ _:_ A prosperous and orderly district of the City. Citizens have comprehensive bill of rights and representative government, though they are subject to the edicts of the Wizard Guild.

_Falignus_ _:_ Powerful young wizard. Leader of Seventh Circle of Magic at beginning of story (see Circles of Magic). Son of Zaringer.

_First Wizard_ _:_ The creator of the City. Little is known about this ancient figure.

_Gwineval_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the Fifth Circle of Magic. Political opponent of Falignus who is eventually turned revolutionary by Safreon and Hemlock.

_Hemlock_ _:_ A notorious rogue who stowed away on a trading barge to emigrate to the City when she was a young adolescent. Main character.

_Imperator, The_ _:_ Wrested control of the City from the First Wizard. Ruled for several generations before his magic finally failed, leaving the City in chaos until Julius started the Wizard Guild.

_Jalis_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the Second Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic). Known for his poorly disguised ambition.

_Julius_ _:_ Founder of Wizard Guild. Discovered Oberon spice and bound Witch Crags to City.

_Jupita_ _:_ Wife of Safreon. Died during Safreon's quest that resulted in discovery of the Wand of Imperator.

_Kraven_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the Fifth Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic) after Gwineval defies Falignus. Killed by Miara during Gwineval's assault on the Tower.

_Malvert_ _:_ Wizard and leader of First Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic). An experienced and brutish fighter in addition to an accomplished battle wizard. Killed at the Battle of Tor Varnos.

_Mercuria_ _:_ Younger sister of Hemlock. Came to the City with Hemlock. Afflicted with a digestive disorder that requires magical treatment.

_Merit_ _:_ Clockwork gnome and former servant of Wizards. Becomes companion to Hemlock on her adventures.

_Miara_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the Third Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic). Known as an ally of Gwineval and for her relatively meek demeanor.

_Night of Ninety-Nine Tears_ _:_ Failed uprising by Senate and allies against Wizard Guild. All conspirators were impaled on pikes.

_Pan Taros_ _:_ King of the Tanna Varrans. His philosophy of pacifism has dominated their culture during his multi-decade reign. Father of Taros Ranvok.

_Penelope_ _:_ A griffin from the eastern mountains. Ally of Safreon and later Hemlock.

_Poyer_ _:_ Rogue wizard and Elite citizen who was captured and punished by the Wizards for using magic to enhance cooking. Punishment caused confrontation between Senate and wizards.

_Quilog_ _:_ Second in command to Siros. Killed during battle near Tor Trios.

_Safreon_ _:_ Freedom fighter of the Warrens district of the City. Mentor of Hemlock. Killed at the Battle of Tor Varnos

_Samberlin_ _:_ Leader of the Senate. Known for his cunning political maneuvering.

_San Cyra_ _:_ Formal and seldom used name of the City.

_Siros_ _:_ Wizard and leader of the First Circle of Magic (see Circles of Magic) after death of Malvert. Killed by Hemlock during assault on Tower.

_Tanna Varrans_ _:_ Live in the Witch Crags. Known for the distinctive blue chalk that they cover themselves in.

_Taros Ranvok_ _:_ Tanna Varran son of Pan Taros. Does not agree with his Father's pacifism in the face of the threat of the Witches. Killed at the Battle of Tor Varnos.

_Tor Halos_ _:_ Second largest Tanna Varran town.

_Tor Trios_ _:_ Smallest Tanna Varran town.

_Tor Varnos_ _:_ Capital town of Tanna Varran people. Home of Pan Taros and his family.

_Tored_ _:_ Tanna Varran war hero of great renown. Trusted advisor of Tanna Varran royal family.

_Warrens_ _:_ A crime ridden and poverty stricken district of the City. Residents do not have any political power.

_Witch, The_ _:_ Most powerful of a set of Witches that rule over a kingdom of malicious undead spirits in the Witch Crags. Killed at the Battle of Tor Varnos.

_Zaringer_ _:_ Wizard and father of Falignus and former leader of Seventh Circle (see Circles of Magic). Fled to northern desert when corruptive magic destroyed his body.

