Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

Turning, he focused the fireblood on the approaching men and watched them become consumed into plumes of ash.

  “How many?” Baylen asked.

  “At least a hundred,” Khiara said from above.

  “Hold the flames,” Tyrus ordered. “Now we can see, and the smoke will add confusion. Bring the fight to them. Now!”

  “Was only waiting for you to say it,” Baylen said with a chuffing laugh. The bulky Cruithne rushed toward the advancing foes.

  Prince Aransetis put his hand on Annon’s shoulder, looking him in the eye with deep seriousness. “I will keep them away from you.” Then he shot like a lance into the midst of the Boeotians. Annon watched him, no weapons in hand, attacking the larger men with crisp, curt movements, standing like a dam against a flood. Each stroke was painful and Annon could hear the sound of snapping bones. An axe coming down at Aransetis’s skull was caught, ripped loose from the attacker’s grasp and tossed aside, followed up with a sharp kick to the kneecap and an elbow into his nose. Annon watched in amazement as the Vaettir prince struck with brutal efficiency, tossing men nearly twice his weight as if they were nothing. His black Rike cassock clung to him, snapping like a flag on a pole as he whipped from one victim to the next.

  Nizeera growled at Annon’s feet, staying next to him in case others broke through.

  None did.

  Paedrin’s chain struck Cunsilion Uchitel’s cheekbone, hard enough to slit open the skin and spray blood, but the giant-man was tireless and determined. Again he swung the axe down hard to split Paedrin in half vertically and again the agile Bhikhu sidestepped the blow and delivered three of his own in return for the one doled out.

  Paedrin whipped the chain around once more, but the Boeotian leader ducked and double-stepped forward, seeking to crush the young warrior with his hands. The Sword carried Paedrin directly over the rushing man and the Bhikhu landed behind him, pivoting the blade under his own armpit and stabbing backward. He felt the blade strike flesh and muscle and withdrew it and swung around again. The giant barely managed to avoid the killing stroke by diving forward. He seized a fistful of dirt and thrust it in Paedrin’s face. The tactic was an ancient one. It normally worked.

  As Paedrin closed his eyes to deal with the abrasive pain of the dirt, his other set of eyes seemed to open and he could see just as clearly with his other senses. He lashed the chain whip down and the Boeotian rolled to one side. He lashed it again, forcing the man to roll the other way. The Boeotian struggled to get to his feet and Paedrin caught him around the neck with the chain, wrapping it in quick circles, and then jerked hard, unbalancing him. With the leash in his left hand, he raised the Sword of Winds to finish him off. His heart hammered in his chest. This would be a deathblow, his first deliberate kill. He sensed the Boeotian kneeling in front of him, chin out defiantly, his breath coming in winded gasps. Could Paedrin do this? Could he end a man’s life on purpose?

  “Hasten!”

  The command was issued by Tyrus. Had he seen the indecision on Paedrin’s face? Was something else amiss in the battle? From what he had seen, Tyrus’s small band was making short work of their foes. Was the summons to return to him and use the Tay al-Ard a result of something Paedrin had done—or failed to do?

  One.

  He could not waste time thinking about it. He left the chain around the leader’s neck and summoned the power of the Sword to bring him to Tyrus’s side.

  Two.

  Paedrin could not see, but he sensed the others were gathering swiftly. His eyes hurt from the dirt, but he ignored the pain. Reaching out, he clasped onto an arm. He recognized the bracer and the shape. It was Hettie. He squeezed her forearm, wanting so much to be away from the nightmares facing them. Where would Tyrus take them? Into the Scourgelands?

  Three.

  “Quickly!” someone called. From the commotion, Paedrin was almost sure it was Phae.

  Four.

  The magic of the Tay al-Ard gripped and flung them far away.

  Five.

  “There is something in humility which strangely exalts the heart.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  V

  The battle with the Boeotians horrified Phae. She felt no physical threat or personal danger, but the abilities of those surrounding her had left her with a deep sense of her own helplessness. She had witnessed Shion fight before, single-handedly defying a group of Romani horsemen and scattering them to the four winds. He did the same to the Boeotians, using his skill and his double knives to deflect any attack against him and preventing any of the warriors from reaching her. Behind them, she had seen the one known as Kiranrao exhibit a bloodlust that would haunt her dreams. He was brutal and efficient at killing and had the uncanny ability to disappear like smoke only to reappear nearby, ready to kill the next man.

  Her father’s curt command to gather had been promptly obeyed and none were left behind. None would have wanted to be stranded amidst a horde of ravaging tribesmen. She did not know where the Tay al-Ard had taken them until she saw a stunted, sickly tree and recalled having seen it earlier that day. Why she had remembered its lopsided shape from before didn’t matter. She realized it was probably for that very reason it was chosen.

  “And why did you spirit us away just then?” Kiranrao demanded, rounding on Tyrus. “We could have handled twice that number and left them all for dead.”

  Phae did not like his tone and how he always seemed to challenge her father. Instead of being angry, her father handled Kiranrao delicately.

  “You may not have seen it,” he answered softly. “They were the ones already starting to flee. Boeotians are quite superstitious. I have other tricks I could have performed that would have frightened them off at the beginning. They respect strength and now they have seen a measure of ours. I want their survivors to warn the Empress we are in her lands. She will draw forces to protect herself, which will leave fewer to face us. I did not bring us to these lands to slaughter Boeotians.”

  Kiranrao frowned, but he did not argue.

  “What do you know of the Empress?” Baylen asked.

  “Precious little,” Tyrus replied. “She seeks no treaties, accepts no ambassadors, and she and her predecessors have repeatedly launched attacks on Kenatos. The Vaettir keep her at bay and occasionally the other kingdoms send forces to repel her attacks. They have no written language, no books, no history. Only the Druidecht are allowed into her realm unmolested.”

  “Why is she called the Empress?” Kiranrao asked.

  “No one knows.” He turned to Annon. “Seek spirits to watch over us as we sleep. There is no way they can track where we went. Also see if you can understand from the spirits how the Boeotians feed themselves. These lands have been rather inhospitable so far, and we’ll need food to enter the Scourgelands. I hope to forage here, but we may not be able to without finding a settlement or one of their wandering camps. If you can, see if one of the spirits will guide us to one.”

  He turned next to Hettie. “Study the tracks that have come since we last crossed this path. See what you learn from them.”

  “Very well,” Hettie answered.

  “The rest of you—sleep while you can. Shion, you keep watch.”

  Phae saw the wisdom in the choice since the man did not ever sleep. Shion nodded, gave Phae a look that was enigmatic, and then the rest skulked to make their beds for the night, devoid of a fire that might reveal them. Phae was exhausted from the long march that day and promptly fell asleep.

  They traveled three more days inside the Boeotians’ country without meeting a single soul. Annon had learned from the spirits of the region where food could be foraged, and it was edible but not tasty, mostly consisting of roots and weeds. For meat, there were some hardy lizards that blended so well into the dirt and rocks that it took a keen eye to find them. Water was also scarce, and so when they found small streams or hidden
pools, they would drink deeply and then fill their water skins. As they crossed farther north, the land became rockier.

  The hard days of walking left blisters on Phae’s heels, and the dust blowing in the air forced them all to wear makeshift scarves to breathe. The dunes were formidable and bleak, making Phae homesick for the lush valleys of Stonehollow. There were no Dryads in these lands, she could tell. Boeotia was a desolate place.

  On the third day traveling north, the terrain changed. Instead of dusty dunes, the bones of huge rocks were exposed, changing the landscape dramatically. Jagged steps and bluffs, full of bumps and pockmarked rocks, cluttered the land in every direction. It was some misshapen mass, with strange gullies and cliffs. They entered warily, with Annon guiding them through the communion of spirit creatures. With the change of terrain came the opportunity for ambush, and so Tyrus kept them closer together.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day, Annon stopped at the top of a rock ledge and pointed into a valley beyond. “There!” he said, waving the others to join him.

  Phae was tired and her muscles ached. Her hair was caked with dust and she felt in desperate need of a stream to wade in. A stream had once carved the desolate canyons, but what she found was even more than she could have imagined.

  “Well,” Baylen said, pursing his lips. “That’s a sight to be seen.”

  The others crested the small rise and Phae got a look at it and stared in surprise. The canyon below had been carved into a little city.

  It was the strangest thing she had ever seen before. Her people, the stonemasons of Stonehollow, were expert builders, carving rock and building fortresses. These people, it seemed, were expert diggers. Spaces and chambers had been carved into the rocks. It was not primitive, but sophisticated. What surprised Phae was the size, probably no larger than a single castle with four or five crumbling walls erected and connected to the canyon side that loomed like mountains in front of it.

  “What is this place?” Aransetis asked, staring down at the town embedded inside the base of the canyon. Chambers had been carved out of the rock faces. His black clothes were spattered with dust and dirt.

  “It’s abandoned,” Khiara observed. “No cook fires. I see no one down there. Not a single soul.”

  “I think you’re right,” Tyrus said. “That is most likely. The Boeotians do not dwell in a particular place for very long. I was unaware of any towns built at all. This place appears to be ruins. As Khiara said, I see no signs of life.”

  “Why are we here?” Kiranrao muttered darkly. “I thought our journey took us into the Scourgelands?”

  “It will,” he answered patiently. “Annon, when you asked the spirits to show you a settlement . . . have they led us here?”

  The Druidecht nodded. “This is where the spirits were leading us to. Maybe they did not understand.”

  “Or maybe something lives inside those caves,” Aransetis added. “It is daylight after all and quite hot. They could watch us approach without being seen.”

  “We’ll trust the spirits,” Tyrus said. “It will be dusk by the time we descend to the bottom of the canyon.”

  “A good place for a trap,” Baylen said. “If this is the only road in or out . . .”

  Tyrus looked at him with a half smile. “We can’t be trapped. But I appreciate you adding your voice of warning. Let us see what awaits us below.”

  A little city carved from living rock.

  What a strange accomplishment, but it was eerily beautiful. Phae was the most grateful for the shade. The canyon floor provided shelter from the sweltering sun. They had wandered the forsaken streets and found no sign of inhabitants. There was nothing left behind, just the skull and bones of the abandoned city. A layer of dust covered everything and Hettie quickly deduced that there were no footprints and scant animal tracks. It truly seemed deserted.

  Phae sat down along the edge of a low stone wall and tugged on her boot. A few sparse trees grew in the base of the canyon where an underground stream likely fed the roots. The stream had encroached along the edge of the forgotten city, but there were no trees deeper inside. Some of the walls had supporting buttresses, and each building was honeycombed with chambers and square windows. She pulled off her boot and poured out a fistful of sand from the inside. A scrawny lizard watched her from the base of the wall, its odd eyes examining her to see if she were a threat.

  Baylen and Tyrus stood near a broken pillar, deep in conversation. The Cruithne towered over her father, but he seemed to be describing something to him based on the way his hands motioned toward the pillars and buttresses. Prince Aran sat in a meditation stance and Phae watched as Khiara came up to him and timidly offered a drink. He looked up, shook his head curtly, and then went back inside his thoughts. Khiara’s shoulders drooped, just a little, as she departed. It made Phae sad.

  Shion wandered up and crouched down next to Phae.

  “Are we safe here, Shion?” she asked, peeling off her other boot as well.

  He nodded curtly. “There are no signs of life. This place was abandoned long ago.”

  “An odd place to build a city.”

  “No, not really,” he answered. He pointed to where the trees were, a little lower. “I imagine there was a time that gully was a swollen river. It probably floods here during the rainy season. It would be difficult for an army to march here. It’s very defensible. The rocks we crossed were like a maze.”

  “Without Annon, we would never have found it.” The pain in her heel made her wince. Gingerly, she rolled down her thick sock and then carefully peeled it away from her heel. The blister had doubled in size since she’d last checked but it had not ruptured yet. The skin was squishy and pale. She groaned.

  “I have some salve from Khiara,” Shion said, fishing through his pockets. “I noticed you limping and thought this would help. But we should puncture the blisters first. Do you still have that needle in your pack?”

  She recalled it instantly, remembering the last time she had used it to stitch his shirt. Her pack was next to her against the wall and she rummaged through it until she found the needle. “Here it is.”

  “Give it to me.”

  She looked him in the eye. “I can do this, Shion. I’ve had blisters before. It’s amazing you know what they are, since you obviously don’t get them.”

  “What scars I have I will always keep,” he replied, dragging the edge of his finger along the curve of his cheek. “Yours will heal.”

  He stared at her, his expression showing that he wanted to help tend to her, but he would not force it on her. She hesitated, seeing the polite entreaty in his eyes, and then offered the needle and he accepted it. Cradling her foot in his lap, he studied the size of the blister, running his finger around the dirty skin. He shook his head and removed his water flask and unstopped it. He carefully washed away the dirt. The feeling of the water on her skin was pleasurable and she found a memory floating into her mind.

  One of her favorite things about living at the Winemiller vineyard had been crushing the grapes in the giant vats. There was no experience like it in the world. The grapes were soft and squishy beneath her feet, the cloying smell from the juices filling her nose. For several days after the harvest they crushed the grapes to make wine, and she had always found joy in the process, the useful act of tending the vines, culling the grapes, and then transforming it into a drink that could be stored for years to come. Having sticky, stained feet was a memory she would miss.

  He pricked the edge of the blister with the needle and it brought her back to the dust-choked land of Boeotia. She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off. Shion carefully pressed, draining the fluid from the blister, and then covered the clean skin with salve to protect it.

  “You had a peaceful look on your face,” Shion said, helping tug off her other sock to examine her other foot.

  “A memory from back home,” she answer
ed. “I would ask you, but I don’t think you’d remember it if you did.”

  “Ask anyway.”

  “I was remembering crushing grapes into wine after the harvest. Have you ever done that?”

  He examined her other foot carefully and then nodded, satisfied. “I don’t believe so. I have no memories from my childhood. But I enjoy the taste of Stonehollow wine. I wonder if I’ve ever drunk a cup crushed by these feet?” He squeezed her foot with just the hint of a teasing smile.

  She felt a little flush rise to her cheeks. “Well, it may be. I don’t know that any of our wine ever made it to Kenatos, but I can tell you that Dame Winemiller made us all wash our feet very thoroughly before standing in the vats.” The memory was sweet but painful. The thought of never seeing Dame Winemiller again brought a lump to her throat.

  “Cherish the memory,” he said softly. “Even though it brings you pain. I would give anything to have mine back. I learned that recently . . . from a girl. I believe her.”

  She looked into his calm blue eyes, not seeing the menace or the danger there, but a thoughtful, caring man. His moods were mercurial. She wished there was a way she could keep him less dangerous more often.

  “Thank you for treating my blister,” she said, smiling at him. “There is something about this place.” She stared up at the gaunt stone walls. “It has no memories. I pity it.”

  “It is your Dryad nature speaking to you. You live to preserve memories. Even the painful ones.”

  “Even the painful ones.” As she stared at him, she realized that in order to restore his memories, after she gained access to her full powers, she would need to kiss him. The thought wasn’t all that terrible in that moment.

  “I can hear something coming, but I cannot see what it is,” Khiara said. “It’s coming down the road we arrived on.”

  “Prepare to depart,” Tyrus announced. “Gather your bedrolls. Dawn will shortly arrive. Paedrin, can you determine if it is a threat? Report back quickly.”