Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Tasvir Virk.

  Tasvir Virk.

  He heard the words now. The chanting growing louder and louder. The sibilant hissing. They had been saying his name all along. His soldiers had hidden among those afflicted with leprosaria. His followers had murdered Annon’s friend Reeder. A cold, clutching feeling grappled inside the Druidecht’s chest.

  “He comes,” the Empress whispered. She was sweating too. With her free hand, she reached for Mathon’s arm and clutched it.

  Tyrus rose to his full height, his face grim and brooding. Annon did not ask about the Tay al-Ard. He suspected that it would not be ready to transport them. They would have to face the situation without its magic.

  “The far tunnel, the one we entered, will be blocked,” Mathon said. “Behind us is another way out. There are spirit creatures there that will frighten all but the bravest Boeotians. Do you see the rune stones carved in the stone above the tunnel? Take your friends and go that way to escape.”

  Phae stood quickly and rubbed her arms as if a winter’s chill had frozen the chamber. A crowd of shuffling masses began to straighten, revealing their deception as they drew nearer. All of Tyrus’s band quickly clustered around where the Empress still sat, her face fearful but determined.

  “Do we fight our way clear?” Paedrin asked, scanning the advancing warriors. There were easily two hundred or more, chanting the name of their leader over and over, drawing weapons from beneath their tattered clothes. Other faces were stern and impassive.

  “You cannot face so many,” the Empress said. “There are thousands more coming from the caverns. This is a war band, not a hunting party. Go!”

  Annon saw him at last. The gaunt one. Tasvir Virk.

  The look on his face was full of strength and glee. He was tall, thin as a rail, but Annon remembered his fierce strength. He detected the presence of spirit magic in a whorl around the man, as the Druidecht drew powers inside himself to aid against them. All the spirits in the room were drawn to Tasvir Virk like a whirlpool in a fast-moving river. None of them sought to aid Annon or the Empress. They harkened to one master.

  “Ich chai velot grane!” Tasvir Virk shouted. The chanting hushed. His voice fell to a quiet, almost lilting, sound. “Ich malor ich conen. Ich safar!”

  The Empress stood, her face going white. “It is time,” she said, shaking her head. She looked at Tyrus in agitation. “Go while you can, Tyrus.”

  “Ich safar!” screamed Tasvir Virk. He raised an oozing stump high into the air. He switched his language to Aeduan, his leering grin triumphant. “I see the boy! I see the man. Oh, how I have longed for this day, Tyrus Paracelsus. Shedding the Empress’s blood would have earned me the right to rule. Killing you will bring me renown and allow me to summon all the warriors to my creed. And there is the boy who left me with a shameful hand. You, pup, I will let live to be my slave. But I will take your hand, boy. I will take your hand! Atu vast! Atu vast!”

  “We have, surviving over many centuries, a text written by an ancient Vaettir general on the art of war. It was written during a time when that race eschewed peace and spent many centuries embroiled in conflict. I heard the Arch-Rike quote it thus in our language: All war is deception.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  IX

  Phae’s emotions roiled with the dread of the upcoming carnage. They were vastly outnumbered, the enemy poised to fight and growing more innumerable by the moment, and against a raving madman who reeked of the fireblood. Part of her wanted to run. Part of her wanted to stand and fight and prevent the Empress from being overrun. The Empress had shared what little she could before her enemies arrived. She had not asked for help, and in fact was offering them a way to escape, to abandon her to her enemies. Part of Phae’s soul shriveled at the sacrifice the Empress was making.

  And yet, her ears were still ringing from the Empress’s words about the Arch-Rike being invulnerable. The way she had described it reminded Phae so much of Shion that her mind had begun to spin possibilities she could not grasp. The claw marks on his face had been reminiscent of one facing the dangers of the Scourgelands. But what if he, somehow, had been granted the immunity and immortality that the Arch-Rike also possessed? Did they have, with them, the only weapon that would defeat the one called Shirikant?

  The maddening maelstrom swirled around her, yet there was something in her thoughts, something just beyond her reach, which teased her. The Empress had directed them to the tunnel they could escape into. Or was it already too late?

  Her father’s expression was hardened with determination. He did not look frantic or agitated—just fiercely serious. Paedrin looked as if he were ready to spring into the air and start fighting. Hettie was looking at the doorway out, while Baylen glared at the gathering enemies and drew his twin blades. All of her fellow companions deferred to Tyrus, awaiting his decision. It happened in moments.

  “We won’t abandon you,” Tyrus said, rounding to face the Empress. “Call a challenge. There is a blood debt here to satisfy. The boy will face Tasvir Virk. Challenge him in your tongue!”

  Phae stared at her father in horror. Annon’s face went white as milk.

  The Empress blinked, startled, and then raised her voice into a scream. “Itsun Golgotha!” She strode forcefully in front of the group, raising both hands in the air and screamed it again. “Itsun Golgotha!”

  Somehow those words managed to quell the turbulent fury of the Boeotians. The weapons raised were stilled, but they trembled with pent-up rage. The Empress stood like a lioness, chin jutting forward, her hair wild. “A cochir. Tan vanu! You are challenged to the death, Tasvir Virk. The Druidecht who stole your honor, who left you with nothing but a shameful hand, will finish what he started in the Vaettir woods. You are challenged for the right to lead this war band. Only blood will suffice.”

  Tyrus grabbed Annon by the shoulder and prepared to shove the boy forward. Phae quailed at the thought, but she trusted her father would not let the Druidecht die. Was there a weapon he would be given, something that would help balance the battle?

  “What are you asking of me?” Annon asked hoarsely, his eyes blazing with naked fear.

  “I will go,” Paedrin volunteered, his jaw muscles tense. “Send me in there, Tyrus.”

  “No, Annon must go.” He gave them each a hard look. “Annon must face him. Gather round me. Quickly.”

  Phae was already there and she saw the looks in their eyes. No one could tell what Tyrus was up to. Yes, the enemy Tasvir Virk was missing one hand, but in his other he clutched a wicked-looking club with a strange orange orb fastened into one end.

  “You play games!” Tasvir snarled.

  “You cannot defy this challenge,” the Empress countered. “Or you stand as a coward before these men.”

  “It is trickery,” Tasvir said. “They will flee. Atu vast!”

  Phae felt a jumble and someone bumped into her and nearly knocked her over. When she straightened she watched Annon leaving the circle, walking toward the Empress. His face had a look of grim determination as he left the shelter of his companions.

  “What are you doing?” Paedrin demanded. “He will be slaughtered!”

  Phae looked for the cat-creature, Nizeera. She had settled down on her haunches, her tail lashing with misery as her pale eyes gleamed, staring at the Druidecht. She did not hasten to his side.

  “Father?” Phae whispered, but Tyrus was already moving, bending low and whispering into Mathon’s ear. The diseased face revealed no emotion, but the eyes were bright—a man being spared an execution.

  The Empress turned as Annon approached. “He deserves a weapon. An equal weapon.”

  Tasvir Virk’s horrid face twisted with the rush of glee and defiance. “Atul!”

  From the press of bodies, someone hurled a club. Annon just managed to dodge the coarse object as it thumped into the dirty ground,
bouncing a little before coming to rest. The wall of Boeotians opened around them, providing a small circle for the battle to happen. Chanting began, this time raw and full of triumph. Tasvir Virk! Tasvir Virk! Tasvir Virk!

  Annon crouched and picked up the wooden cudgel. He slowly rose, holding it awkwardly.

  The Black Druidecht suddenly reached out his hand and a jet of blue flames streaked at the young man, engulfing him in an instant. The heat and power knocked back many who were too close on the other side. She saw their skin smoking, the purple tattoos becoming livid, and then the flames died down. Phae stared in surprise. None of the Boeotians had been harmed by the flames. It seemed as if there was some magic in their tattoos that protected them. Their faces twisted with delight.

  As the flames died, Annon stood steadfast, head bowed, unharmed. Of course the fireblood would not have harmed him.

  Tasvir Virk nodded, as if he had expected to see that, and then he began to croon, speaking in the language of Boeotia, his tone taunting. He began to swing the club around in circles, faster and faster as he approached Annon. Spittle flecked from his lips.

  Phae’s heart raced with concern. Annon began to step back, his feet looking clumsy as he tried to time the Black Druidecht’s attack. Phae squeezed her fists, biting her lip as she watched the duel. Then, like a cobra, Tasvir Virk lunged and his club whistled down the other way, aiming to crush Annon’s skull.

  Somehow the younger man managed to sidestep the attack in time and shoved Tasvir away with his own club. Nizeera growled in pleasure, if not relief. But the Black Druidecht brought an elbow into Annon’s stomach and whipped the club around again. Annon ducked and circled the other way, trying to keep out of the taller man’s reach.

  Phae was amazed. She was terrified for Annon, but it seemed his emotions had frozen in that moment of need, giving him clarity and strength. His eyes focused on his enemy, watching his movements and trying to determine his intentions. He dodged two more thrusts and then the gaunt man trapped Annon’s boot with his. Suddenly Annon was lying on his back in the middle of the arena. Tasvir howled with victory and swung the club down, but the orb struck dust and dirt as Annon rolled to the side. He kicked out at Tasvir’s leg, landing a strike right below the knee. The gaunt man grimaced in pain and tottered but did not fall.

  The orb in Tasvir’s club began to glow, sending off smoky tendrils of light tinged with green. The Boeotians who were packed tightly recoiled from the smoke and light and began to push against each other to back away, to clear more space for the combatants.

  A wicked grin spread across Tasvir’s lips. “You cannot defeat me,” he said, saliva dribbling from the crook of his mouth. “My magic poisons you. You bear not the runes to defend against its power. Wither, boy. I will take your hand!”

  Tasvir feinted with the club, sending its trailers of magic into Annon’s chest.

  Annon winced, his expression clouding over as if overcome with nausea. Phae began to tremble, wondering if she was going to watch Annon be murdered in front of them all. She looked for Tyrus and saw him bent over the ground near the stone boulder that the Empress had been seated in front of during her wild tale. It was the boulder with the broken face carved into it, the nightmare expression that would haunt her dreams. Tyrus put a stone on the ground near the boulder. She saw there were more already around it. What was he . . . ?

  The sound of two clubs clashing drew her gaze back. The Boeotians were staring, startled. There was fear in their eyes—fear of what they had just seen.

  Tasvir stared at Annon in surprise. Something had happened between them that Phae missed. She gazed at Annon as well, saw him standing a little straighter. Tasvir swung the club around again, hard as iron. Annon blocked it effortlessly, the cracking noise reverberating in the chamber. Tasvir screamed in fury and butted the ball into Annon’s stomach. It was like striking a wall.

  Phae’s eyes widened and she realized what was happening.

  Snarling with uncomprehending fury, the Black Druidecht pulled back and swung the club straight down. This time, his opponent did not step aside; instead he stepped in and caught the club with his own, which shattered Tasvir’s weapon into fragments. Tossing aside the fragments, Annon—only it wasn’t—gripped Tasvir Virk’s wrist and flipped him onto his back in front of everyone.

  There was a moment of pure mayhem and the crowd prevented Phae from seeing what happened. It was Shion, not Annon. Then she remembered the charm Hettie had—the one that allowed her to look like anyone else. Of course!

  “Atu kolgren. Atu fesit! Bloch mondray.”

  The orders were said in a strong, piercing voice. She recognized it as Shion’s, only somehow he was speaking in the Boeotian language. The crowd backed away even more sharply now and she saw Tasvir in a crumpled heap, his single arm twisted cruelly behind his back, his frothing mouth screaming in pain and rage in the dirt. He struggled despite the agony, trying to free himself from the vicious hold.

  Annon’s face turned to Phae; their eyes met. Somehow, despite the illusion, she recognized him. It was the expression, the studied serious look he always wore. It was strange on such a young man’s face.

  “You must kill him,” the Empress said, striding forward. “It is the way of our people. He has failed and he must die. His honor demands it. You’ve bested him, Druidecht. Though I cannot say how.”

  Shion brought his arm around and hooked it around Tasvir Virk’s throat, keeping his arm pinned all the while. Tasvir spluttered, trying to thrash his way out of the hold. He was untamable, completely mad, heedless of the pain. Blood trickled from his lips as he tried to contort his way free.

  The Boeotians’ eyes were full of battle lust, yet many set down their weapons, staring at the young Druidecht with awe.

  With just a flex of his arm, Shion could have stopped the madman from breathing. Phae stared at them, wondering what the Quiet Kishion would do.

  Then Shion’s gaze met hers again. He nodded to her to approach. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do.

  Phae rubbed her arms as she crossed the trampled ground separating them. She was vulnerable, she realized. Any of them could lash out at her, but somehow the power was centered on Shion at that moment. All eyes stared at him. She reached him in moments, feeling suddenly safer to be near him again.

  “He’s mad,” Shion whispered, despite the moans and thrashing from his captive. “Take it away. Take it all away.”

  Tasvir’s eyes bulged as he saw her. He tried to reach out with his stump to grab her, but there were not fingers to do the work. He shuddered with violent spasms, unable to break the iron grip of his captor. Phae stared into his bloodshot, maddened eyes. With her Dryad powers, she could steal memories of the last few moments or his entire life. All she needed was to look into his eyes.

  She blinked.

  Nothing happened.

  A cool, prickling sensation went through her bowels. It was unpleasant—almost painful. She had felt her mind grip his memories, but they were suddenly slippery. She swallowed and clutched her stomach.

  “Try again,” Shion said, nodding to her with determination.

  She looked into Tasvir Virk’s eyes once more. The prickling sensation went deeper. She blinked again.

  The magic took hold that time. In an instant, she had his memories, mostly dark and terrible and full of violence. She let them drain from her like sand.

  All the fight went out of Tasvir Virk. He slumped, drool dribbling from his chin. His brows knit in concern, as if he were struggling to remember something, anything. Shion released him and stood straight, still wearing the mask of Annon’s face as his own. The smoking light had vanished from the Black Druidecht’s cudgel. Shion saw the club on the dirt, stepped over to it and picked it up with both hands. Then with a powerful downward thrust, he snapped it across his knee and tossed it aside.

  The disguised Shion approached the Empress
and dropped to one knee in front of her. Phae followed his example, also kneeling in front of her. Phae risked a glance, seeing a look of honor and tears of relief glittering in the Empress’s eyes. Murmurs of celebration began to rumble through the huge chamber. All around, the Boeotians were shaking their heads, as if some bad dream had been dispelled. They too dropped down to one knee, bowing their heads to her.

  The Empress turned and found Tyrus standing by the boulder, staring at it with grim respect.

  “You defeated the stone carving,” the Empress said in a hushed voice.

  “No,” Tyrus replied. “I merely silenced it. When I placed the last stone over there, the whispers all went silent. You noticed it, didn’t you, for you wear a talisman.”

  She nodded eagerly. “Those whispers . . . have been so difficult to keep out of my mind.”

  Tyrus smiled grimly. “This kind of spirit is called a Greilich. They are dark ones banished from Mirrowen. Their whispers are very subtle. They tease you with peeks of wisdom. But the wisdom can spoil like fruit. You would do well to no longer listen to it.”

  “So it is not banished?” the Empress asked.

  Tyrus shook his head. “It takes some time and means to trap a spirit such as this. I do not have either at this point. But if you keep those stones in place, they will quiet it. The spirit is angry, I assure you. Never remove those stones. Its influence will wane now that it cannot communicate with those who live in the caves. The Greilich’s influence is best felt in the shadows.”

  “Your Druidecht surprised me,” the Empress said. “I misjudged him.”

  “Indeed,” Tyrus said with a smirk. But he did not explain to her what he had done.

  Phae had the feeling she was staring at two masters of manipulation who had managed, just barely, to avert a disaster.

  “It is said that even the philosopher cannot bear to endure a toothache. Words contain great wisdom, but it is only in the manifestation of these experiences that the wisdom settles into our bones and guides us to act. You see, the words printed here are but concepts. You must go through the experiences yourself.”