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.