Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Into the night they walked, keeping close, remaining silent. Like Paedrin, Annon preferred being on his feet instead of riding the truculent camels. He watched for signs of spirit life and observed nothing. The land was full of dead, wasted dunes. He had always envisioned the Scourgelands as a forest, yet he wondered what he would find when they reached there. Mapmakers were completely unable to chart the vastness of its domains and usually labeled the northern edge of their work with threatening words, as if to warn away curious adventurers. That was also likely Shirikant’s influence, to make the place seem even more forbidding.

  Annon’s legs and ankles felt strong as he walked, hearing the soft tread of Nizeera’s paws behind him. He was grateful for her presence, even though she kept her mind veiled.

  The night was dark and lonely and the sweltering heat from the day had vanished at last and turned to bone-chilling cold. On they walked, deeper into the gloom. The dust cloud finally vanished, revealing a startlingly small sliver of moon. The night wore on as the myriad stars spun overhead. Often he had stared up at the vast heavens, wondering what lay deeper in that vast, jeweled expanse. Was it merely a screen that hid from view glimpses of scenes too wonderful to behold?

  Yes.

  Annon glanced back at Nizeera, grateful for the contact at last. He did not chide her for her reticence, for he was grateful to have earned her companionship again. Gazing back at the sky, he was overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of the horizon.

  In a while, a touch of brightness began to thread the eastern horizon, though they were still marching northward. Annon glanced at each of his companions in turn, trying to commit the moment to memory. What a disparate group they made. Khiara spoke softly to Prince Aran in the Vaettir tongue, her look forlorn and nervous. Baylen walked with grim determination, gazing ahead periodically to judge the distance. Kiranrao skulked, keeping apart from the others. Hettie and Paedrin bantered with each other, the Bhikhu always ready with a quip. Phae and Shion were walking near each other. Neither of them spoke. So many differences. The only commonality really was Tyrus Paracelsus, the mastermind behind the expedition. Annon watched him more than the others, wondering why he always seemed to call out Annon to counsel with or position as potential leader. Annon felt the ring on his finger that would summon the Tay al-Ard into his hand. He kept that knowledge secret and wondered if there were other secrets to be learned.

  The Scourgelands.

  Annon nearly caught his breath when he saw them, appearing out of the gloom—a massive wall of unruly trees. The vicious sandstorm had slammed into the impenetrable woods and spent its fury out. Fresh sand was everywhere, clearing tracks or trails. Annon’s heart lurched at the sight.

  The Druidecht had always considered the twisted shape of oak trees to be a slightly frightening thing. The tortured limbs and branches often took on grotesque shapes. The trees of the Scourgelands were ancient, hulking and misshapen beyond anything he could have expected. Several trees were so huge and bent that their limbs were too heavy to hold up and sagged on the blighted earth. The trunks were wide enough that it would have taken all of them to join hands before managing to clasp the entire tree. The air had a rotten, decaying smell. Mixed with the sparse leaves were dense, shaggy moss and other growth, probably mistletoe. The colors were muted because of the glowing sunrise, but they revealed themselves in swaths of greens, grays, and mottled browns. Each oak was unique and there was no symmetry or pattern to the forest. Some had branches forked like towers into the drab sky. Others were so twisted and bent that they seemed to be crawling across the earth like fat spiders with too much bulk.

  There were no ferns or shocks of crabgrass or other signs of plant life—only the presence of ancient, hulking trees. The woods had a presence, a majesty that went beyond his ability to describe. But it was a terrible majesty, a powerful force that scorned the approaching mortals. The Scourgelands seemed to bid them, in whispered, haughty tones, to enter its midst and die.

  Annon heard a muffled intake of breath, a sob unable to be concealed. He turned and saw Phae, her lashes wet, as she stared at the Scourgelands. She stopped in her tracks, unable to calm her trembling. Tyrus joined her side, putting his arm around her. Shion was there as well, even his face betraying some deep emotion. Was he reliving memories of the place? Was this where he had earned the scars on his face?

  “It’s so sad,” Phae said in a choked voice. “I feel them, Father. I can feel them even from here. This is a terrible place. Such terrible sadness.” She coughed against her wrist, then buried her face against her father’s cloak. “The memories. There are so many memories.”

  Annon’s heart clenched with shared pain as he watched Phae suffer. His own heart felt as if it would burst when he saw the oaks and realized that he had lost Neodesha forever. Mortals were banished from Mirrowen because of these trees, the barrier preventing the two worlds from communing.

  It reminded Annon, very briefly, of how the sick woods around Havenrook felt. Those had suffered from neglect and the relentless gambling and commerce of the Preachán. Wagons had carved ruts into the dirt. Axes had sliced a crooked path through the forest to reach its destination. No such road greeted them into the Scourgelands. The twisted, tangled oaks were a buttress—a fortress of colossal size that stretched across the horizon in both directions.

  Tyrus murmured softly to his daughter, trying to help her steel herself. Annon saw a sick pallor on Phae’s cheeks. She nodded at something her father said, but Annon noticed her arm clutching her stomach, as if her bowels troubled her.

  “Why are we dawdling?” Kiranrao said with a raspy voice. His eyes glittered as he stared at the trees. “Let’s finish this madness.”

  “The madness is only beginning,” Tyrus said stonily. “Remember my warning. Come to me when I yell the word Hasten. I will not wait for anyone. We must act as one.” His breath started to quicken, his eyes crinkling with worry. Clutching Phae to him tightly, he kissed the top of her head. Then letting her go, he began marching toward the maw of the wicked trees.

  Annon stared at him, amazed at the courage. His own heart was teeming with trepidation.

  Go, Druidecht, Nizeera thought, nudging his leg with her nose. I fulfill my oath at last.

  “Why is it that we fear dark places? Even a place well trodden by us through time can arouse the greatest foreboding when un-illuminated. We tread carefully. Our ears strain at every sound. Darkness is but a pause in breath of a voice we do not wish to hear speak.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  XV

  Despite the limited sunlight, the Scourgelands were deep and impenetrable. The trees were huge and twisted, thick with moss and lichen. As they entered the shadowed realm, Paedrin felt his pulse quicken with dread. He scanned everywhere, gazing quickly at the trees but never lingering to stare at any one of them for longer than an instant, having been warned by Tyrus that doing so would jeopardize his memories by exposing them to the magic of the Dryad sentinels.

  Phae explained that a Dryad could snatch away a single memory or purge a person’s entire remembrance of himself. It was a fearful power and Phae warned that they should avoid the complete mind purge altogether by not looking directly at any tree. Which was difficult to consider since the size of the oaks defied belief—they towered over everyone, their warped branches braided to prevent him, or any Vaettir-born, from escaping the net of hooked limbs. The power of flight would be hampered, but there were pockets of space where he would be able to maneuver and use the advantages that his race and the Shatalin blade provided.

  The ground was a whorl of desiccated leaves and twigs that snapped and crunched with every step. Even as light-footed as Paedrin was, he could not pass soundlessly through such a field. The sound of Baylen’s boots filled his ears with the hissing noise of the thick ground cover. He searched from side to side, up and down, every muscle tense.

  Hettie was chos
en to take the lead, her bow drawn and an arrow ready in the nock. He watched her from behind, admiring her cautious gait, her deliberate movements darting from tree to tree. He would not let her slip too far ahead, for fear of the creatures waiting to ambush them.

  Shortly after passing into the shadowed realm, they were met by a barricade of mossy stones, intermeshed with the trees to form a rugged form of wall that stretched endlessly in both directions.

  “We called this the Fell Wall,” Tyrus said, his voice betraying tension. “We were attacked as soon as we crossed it.”

  “Let me go first,” Paedrin offered. “I can glide up to the trees and see if anything lurks on the other side.”

  Tyrus looked at him and then at Phae. “Are any of these Dryad trees?”

  Phae’s face was ashen. She shook her head no and pointed off to the west. “Over there. I can sense her. But this way is safe.”

  The Paracelsus looked back at Paedrin and nodded curtly. Grateful for the opportunity, Paedrin sucked in a steady breath. He swiftly rose, feeling the welcome giddiness that accompanied flight, and nestled on a huge, bent branch, almost forming a cradle amidst the boughs. The bark was rough with dabs of orange sap, which he avoided. Landing gracefully, he crouched and peered down the other side of the Fell Wall. He studied the ground for movement, letting his eyes linger on the gloom, trying to penetrate it.

  The maze of trees went on in every direction.

  From his perch, he saw no movement, heard no sound except for the rustling of the branches as the breeze fluttered overhead. This was no forest like he had seen. The hush was palpable, the dim, vague shapes of trees and shadows playing tricks on his mind. He studied the ground, searching both ways as well as up into the trees. He motioned for the others to start climbing.

  Hettie came first, bounding up the rocks with agility, reaching the base of his tree in moments. The others were more cautious as Baylen brought up the rear with two huge broadswords clutched in his meaty hands. He faced the woods they had already crossed, forming a wall to defend the others as they climbed.

  “It’s so dark,” Hettie murmured. “What do you see from up there?”

  “Not much more than you can. This place is . . . I’m not even sure I have the right word. Loathing comes close. Dreadful.”

  “It is ancient,” Hettie said, rubbing her gloved hand along the craggy bark of the oak. “The trees all feel like they are watching us. We are intruders here.”

  Paedrin did not want to be distracted by their conversation and kept staring down at the other side, crouching even lower and leaning over to grab a tree branch to steady himself. As soon as he did, an overwhelming impulse to jump seized him, jolting him with the suddenness of the emotion. Not to float down, but to let himself crash to the ground, face first, and die. The emotions were powerful, and he felt the urge to obey grow stronger.

  “Don’t touch the trees,” Paedrin warned, releasing the branch and floating down to avoid the impulse to kill himself.

  Hettie’s eyes widened. “Are you okay?”

  He reached her side, grateful that the terrible urge subsided. “That was awful,” he confessed.

  “What?”

  “Touching the tree with my bare skin made me want to kill myself. I nearly did.” He looked at her hands and saw her wearing her bracers and gloves. The same impulse had not come to her at all.

  “Be careful,” Paedrin warned to the others. “Don’t touch the trees.”

  Khiara and the Prince joined them at the summit, and together the four of them ventured down the other side while the others finished climbing the stones. Something flickered on the edge of Paedrin’s awareness and he shot a look to his left. Nothing. He ground his teeth, hating the exposed feeling that enveloped him. He saw the look on Hettie’s face as she stared into the deep woods, a drawn, anxious look on her mouth. He wanted to hold her tightly so much, whisper reassurances into her ear. But those words would be lies. He was anxious himself, the dread pall of the Scourgelands settling across his shoulders and burrowing into his soul.

  Kiranrao appeared off to the right, a swirl of shadow magic that made him substanceless one moment to the next. The Romani stared at the woods with contempt.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “No traps here. Nothing defies us.”

  “A good omen,” Tyrus said from the top of the mound. “But I have no doubt that the denizens of this place know we are here now.”

  The baying came from the woods behind them. They had passed into the lair of the Scourgelands unharmed so far, which Paedrin ascribed to Tyrus’s brilliance of moving in following the dust storm. But the hounds had discovered their scent at last.

  He looked at Tyrus and saw his jaw tighten. “They can communicate with each other at great distances. They’ll surround us before attacking, so we have time still. Faster.”

  “Will you use the Tay al-Ard?” Prince Aran asked.

  “Not yet. Only if the situation is dire. Stay together and move fast. We’ll change directions often and see how they react. This way.”

  Paedrin’s heart was hammering with anticipation. He was ready to fight, ready to kill. If Aboujaoude could master his squeamishness about death, then so could Paedrin. Strange, hulking boulders covered in moss stood in various points along the way, some sheared as if struck by lightning. The companions walked faster, trying to get away from the sound of the baying. Before much time had passed, the sound came again, also from behind them. It was answered by a call from another direction, ahead of them.

  “That way,” Tyrus said, changing direction suddenly, bringing the others into step with him. They plunged through the trees, heedless of the noise they made. Some of the oak trees had branches so low that they had to hurdle them to pass. The pungent air grew thicker, not with the smell of renewing loam but with the fetid stink of dying flesh.

  Another chorus of bays started from another side, joined by the other two from different points around them. The beasts were responding to their movements fluidly and the sound took on an eerily human sound, like the cry of a child. It made Paedrin shudder to his bones.

  Tyrus cursed softly to himself. “Ahead . . . keep going!”

  “We should find a position to defend ourselves,” Baylen suggested.

  “The Cruithne is right,” Kiranrao joined. “We don’t want to be attacked on all fronts.”

  “You don’t understand their tactics,” Tyrus snapped. “The baying is to unnerve us. When they attack, they will attack after it has gone silent.”

  The sound was achieving its intended purpose, Paedrin realized. The howling came from every direction now and he thought he could see slips of shadows through the dark maze of trees.

  “We’re heading right toward a Dryad tree,” Phae warned, pointing. “That way.”

  “Follow me,” Tyrus said, altering the course immediately. They were going back the way they had come, circling the other direction. Paedrin was sure of it.

  “We’re heading back, Tyrus?”

  “Trust me,” he said. “Don’t trust your senses. We’ve shifted directions multiple times already. Without the sun, you have no way to trust your bearings. Just follow me.”

  They plunged into the woods deeper and suddenly the baying stopped.

  Everyone looked around in bewilderment and fear. The look on Annon’s face was full of dread and Paedrin noticed his friend’s fingers start to glow blue.

  “Not yet,” Tyrus ordered. “Follow.”

  “What about our defenses?” Baylen asked.

  The Paracelsus turned on him. “You’re about to understand it firsthand, Baylen. There are no defensive positions. You stay alive. That’s all you think about.”

  “How many do you think there are?” Kiranrao asked.

  “We only heard their pack chiefs. I counted probably eight.”

  “How many are in a pack?”

>   “A dozen to two dozen each,” Tyrus said grimly. “They’ll go for your throat. Be ready, but keep moving. We disrupt them by advancing and not waiting. Faster!”

  Before they could go another step, black shadows sprang at them from the twisted line of trees. Paedrin whistled in warning, spinning away from the others to launch himself at the first ranks. They were dogs, but not dogs—huge hounds with jet-black pelts. The beasts were as tall as ponies and ribbed with muscle and short black fur. Paedrin saw the gleam of snapping teeth and realized in horror that each of the monsters had two heads. There was no growling or yowling, just charging fetid breath and snapping fangs.

  Paedrin felt the whole earth slow into a syrupy haze. He vaulted forward, one arm aiming backward, his sword arm pointing out. He leapt at the first of the beasts with a rush of magic and launched himself like a spear. He impaled the beast right in the fork of its neck, plunging the blade into its heart. The impact of the thrust nearly buried the blade, so he quickly tugged it back and swung around again, for another was snapping at his legs and the other at his arm.

  Paedrin could not describe the feeling of calm that centered deep inside his chest. All his life he had trained in the Bhikhu temple, sparring and conditioning his body to perform feats of delicate balance and harsh fury. There was no time to think or plan. There was no moment to analyze. A hundred Vecses had charged into their midst and Paedrin slashed and ripped at them with passion and lethal skill. He saw blinding flashes of blue flame and heard cries of terror and intense emotion.

  There was pain. Certainly, there was pain. There was no way he could prevent injuries from such a flood of snarling, snapping monsters. He flung himself one way and then the next, not staying put long enough for the beasts to focus on him. He noticed that none of the Vecses had eyes, but deep sockets that were glassy smooth like teacups. Even though they had no eyes, each beast had two snouts that seemed to know exactly where he was, just as his blind vision could also see them. He recognized that their noses were sensitive and he could easily disable a beast with a sharp blow to the nose, or smashing the pommel of his sword against them. He felt gashes on his legs and knew he was bleeding. But none of them could pin him down or gain access to his throat, despite how many hurtled at him like darts.