stoop over and use a carved staff for support.
The woman bade them to enter despite her disapproving look. The room they walked into had once been an opulent parlor full of burgundy velour and dark wood, but the passing years had left it in a state not unlike the old crone’s body. Once fine wood had warped and signs of disrepair were evident, yet this somehow added to the supernatural ambience of the place.
Hemlock noticed that Tored lingered in the doorway. She looked back and motioned for him to enter. He seemed to hesitate.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, stepping slowly into the space.
“Well, well,” crooned the old woman, looking over Tored oddly.
Tored bore his typical air of indifference, but Hemlock sensed some unexplained tension in him.
“They call you the Old Mother, right?” said Hemlock. There was something unusual about the woman. Hemlock’s magical affinity registered negative energy coming from her, but it was insubstantial and difficult to categorize. It almost felt like potential, rather than realized, energy.
“True enough,” croaked the woman.
Another muffled thump sounded from below them.
“Take us down there!” said Hemlock, looking around for a door to the basement. She spotted a likely one in the far corner of the room, partially concealed by shadow. There was a coating of dust in the vicinity of the door that looked freshly disturbed.
The Old Mother stepped in front of Hemlock . “You can’t go down there,” she cried defiantly.
Hemlock pushed her aside and marched toward the door. “Watch her, Tored,” she cried as she proceeded past the woman.
Reaching the door, her eyes adjusted to the low light as she lifted an iron handle to unlatch the locking mechanism.
“Get away from there!” yelled the Old Mother, but Hemlock ignored her.
The door opened inward, and a dark, winding stone stairway stood beyond it, low-lit but doused in flickering orange from some lower source.
A loud, guttural grunt echoed from unseen depths was followed by another thump. The latter sounded like the shifting of a bulky object without the door muffling it.
Hemlock quickly scanned the stairs for any sign of threat then descended cautiously.
She turned and hissed, “Bring her.” Hemlock returned her attention to the stairs with the stench of humid rot greeting her nostrils.
She descended down four score steps then an unexpectedly large chamber yawned before her. It was cylindrical and high-ceilinged, with multi-story wine racks that had been gutted, planked and changed into crude bookshelves. Row upon row of moldy tomes ringed the outside of the room. In the center of the chamber was a glowing pit above which hovered a luminous, deep red cloud that seemed to undulate with tongues of unnatural flame. A trio of bronze braziers added additional light and were the source of the flickering Hemlock had seen on the stairs. Midway between the shelves and the pit, the large man from the market was shackling a slighter figure to the floor with heavy, short chains. Displaced pieces of previously well-laid slate flooring suggested the shackles had been recently and crudely installed. The slight figure didn’t resist the imprisonment.
Something about the prone figure was familiar to Hemlock , and then her foot struck a loose object on the stair. A dull copper cup sat at her feet.
“Jasper,” she mouthed without a sound.
“Boris!” shouted the Old Mother hoarsely as Tored escorted her down the stairs behind Hemlock.
The large man looked up as Hemlock bolted down the remaining stairs. She stood before him with a sabre at his chest before he had fully risen.
S uddenly, her head was swimming with the recognition of incredibly potent magical emanations coming from the vicinity of the pit. The deep red cloud was filled with a demonic magical presence. As she regarded it, the undulating cloud took on a humanoid form, and a
The woman bade them to enter despite her disapproving look. The room they walked into had once been an opulent parlor full of burgundy velour and dark wood, but the passing years had left it in a state not unlike the old crone’s body. Once fine wood had warped and signs of disrepair were evident, yet this somehow added to the supernatural ambience of the place.
Hemlock noticed that Tored lingered in the doorway. She looked back and motioned for him to enter. He seemed to hesitate.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, stepping slowly into the space.
“Well, well,” crooned the old woman, looking over Tored oddly.
Tored bore his typical air of indifference, but Hemlock sensed some unexplained tension in him.
“They call you the Old Mother, right?” said Hemlock. There was something unusual about the woman. Hemlock’s magical affinity registered negative energy coming from her, but it was insubstantial and difficult to categorize. It almost felt like potential, rather than realized, energy.
“True enough,” croaked the woman.
Another muffled thump sounded from below them.
“Take us down there!” said Hemlock, looking around for a door to the basement. She spotted a likely one in the far corner of the room, partially concealed by shadow. There was a coating of dust in the vicinity of the door that looked freshly disturbed.
The Old Mother stepped in front of Hemlock . “You can’t go down there,” she cried defiantly.
Hemlock pushed her aside and marched toward the door. “Watch her, Tored,” she cried as she proceeded past the woman.
Reaching the door, her eyes adjusted to the low light as she lifted an iron handle to unlatch the locking mechanism.
“Get away from there!” yelled the Old Mother, but Hemlock ignored her.
The door opened inward, and a dark, winding stone stairway stood beyond it, low-lit but doused in flickering orange from some lower source.
A loud, guttural grunt echoed from unseen depths was followed by another thump. The latter sounded like the shifting of a bulky object without the door muffling it.
Hemlock quickly scanned the stairs for any sign of threat then descended cautiously.
She turned and hissed, “Bring her.” Hemlock returned her attention to the stairs with the stench of humid rot greeting her nostrils.
She descended down four score steps then an unexpectedly large chamber yawned before her. It was cylindrical and high-ceilinged, with multi-story wine racks that had been gutted, planked and changed into crude bookshelves. Row upon row of moldy tomes ringed the outside of the room. In the center of the chamber was a glowing pit above which hovered a luminous, deep red cloud that seemed to undulate with tongues of unnatural flame. A trio of bronze braziers added additional light and were the source of the flickering Hemlock had seen on the stairs. Midway between the shelves and the pit, the large man from the market was shackling a slighter figure to the floor with heavy, short chains. Displaced pieces of previously well-laid slate flooring suggested the shackles had been recently and crudely installed. The slight figure didn’t resist the imprisonment.
Something about the prone figure was familiar to Hemlock , and then her foot struck a loose object on the stair. A dull copper cup sat at her feet.
“Jasper,” she mouthed without a sound.
“Boris!” shouted the Old Mother hoarsely as Tored escorted her down the stairs behind Hemlock.
The large man looked up as Hemlock bolted down the remaining stairs. She stood before him with a sabre at his chest before he had fully risen.
S uddenly, her head was swimming with the recognition of incredibly potent magical emanations coming from the vicinity of the pit. The deep red cloud was filled with a demonic magical presence. As she regarded it, the undulating cloud took on a humanoid form, and a
Similar Books
