Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Fire exploded from Annon’s hands as massive, frenzied Weir began to appear. Their fur and hide expelled that strange dustlike hoarfrost as they moved, powerful sinews bounding, claws tearing up the ground. The blast from the fireblood struck them full, scattering and destroying the creatures, but another wave was coming from behind.

  Phae’s heart spasmed with terror at the immediate threat, knowing they had plunged into the center of the hive, that their survival against such a host of foes would be short-lived if she did not make it to the tree quickly.

  The Bhikhu sprung like an arrow, his sword slashing through the nearest Weir, who came at him with savage ferocity. Shion grabbed her shoulders, ready to plunge into the thickest part when Annon caught her wrist. His eyes were blazing with intensity and despair. He thrust the Tay al-Ard into her hands. “To Mirrowen,” he urged her desperately. “Save us!”

  One of the beasts landed on Annon’s back, its claws shredding through his previous injuries, and he screamed in pain. He raised his hands and seized the beast by the ruff, turning it into ash with a single burst of his magic. As he turned away from her, she saw the red stains on his shredded cloak and watched his face turn chalk white. She stuffed the Tay al-Ard into her belt.

  Shion pulled her after him, but she saw a multitude of Weir bearing down on them. He could not stop such an onslaught himself, and she knew it. Hunching her shoulders, she dug her boots into the ground to stop and shoved her wrists forward, letting her own fireblood sear into the ranks of maddened creatures.

  Come, child! I feel your presence. Come to me, lost daughter!

  The voice in her mind was full of suffering and despair. A caged one, a victim, a being so thirsty for freedom she was desiccated. Wave after wave of emotion broke against Phae’s mind, a pleading and yearning deeper than the ocean. She looked past the charging Weir, past the other sentinels guarding it, then saw the tree.

  She could sense its unfathomable age deep down into the core of herself, the part of herself that was aching and trembling and that had nearly expelled the innate magic that was a part of her since childhood. She felt her Dryad magic throbbing, causing a wave of painful wrenching that tore through her violently. Phae gasped at the swell of it, at the insurmountable agony of being so close to a tree that was already part of her very essence somehow.

  The tree was thick and twisted, not majestic as she had imagined, not a towering thing but a stunted one. It seemed as if limbs had been broken off or cut down and other limbs grafted on. The trunk was full of gnarled bulges and scabs, grotesque and hunchbacked. The trunk was split in two, showing a small gap between and a shadowed crevice inside. No other tree grew directly around it, as if its leaves and mistletoe were poison to anything else living. The tree seemed to sway, the spear-like branches defying her, warning her that she’d be pierced through if she ventured near.

  One of the Weir slashed through her cloak, ripping the skin on her side into grooves of blood. She turned and blasted it away along with four others charging her from that side. There was no time to think, only to act, to unleash the heat inside her and endure the pangs that tortured every breath. Shion slashed at the wall of Weir with his twin blades, bringing them down with brutal efficiency.

  There was a whisper on the wind, a cry of warning from Paedrin. Phae watched Kiranrao materialize out of nothing but smoke and stab Prince Aran in the back with his malevolent blade. The Prince’s face went slack and he dropped like a stone. Phae nearly wept.

  Paedrin roared with fury but the Romani vanished as quickly as he had appeared, his cold sneer fading with him.

  Annon blasted where he had been standing with a stream of blue fire, spinning in an arc to cover the area. Paedrin’s grief was terrible, and Phae could not watch it. Too many beasts were coming at her, too many enemies, but suddenly the Bhikhu’s voice lifted in warning.

  “The sentinels!” Paedrin shouted. “They have bows. From behind us. Do not look into their eyes. It is death to do so! They cannot be slain!”

  With the warning just past his lips, an arrow hissed and struck Annon’s shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him down.

  An arrow shot at Paedrin, but he twisted and it sailed past, embedding into a tree. Annon scrabbled at the ground, groaning with agony, and she saw the tip of the arrow that had struck him protruding from his chest. Half-bent, he raised one arm, fingers hooked, and sent off another blaze of fire, spraying it wildly around them, setting fire to the trees and brittle brush. Soon flames were crackling and smoke obscured everything. Another arrow pierced Annon in the middle and he sagged to his knees.

  Shion yanked on Phae’s arm, drawing her with him toward their goal. Annon’s face, twisted with excruciating pain and black with soot, was etched in her mind, his mouth gaping with an unfulfilled scream. She felt every rushing beat of her own heart. She could not hear Shion’s words, though she saw his lips moving. He slashed the throat of one of the Weir hurtling at him, ducking the heavy body as it sailed past and killing the creature in a stroke. The fire was spreading. Paedrin stood in a maelstrom of Weir, his blade spinning in lethal arcs—in front, behind, in front, behind.

  Suddenly Kiranrao appeared again, right next to Shion, and Phae tried to scream in warning. The blade lifted and fell just as an arrow pierced Phae’s leg, shattering the bone. The pain engulfed her and she went down, unable to breathe through the torture of it, watching Shion evade the lunge and kill another Weir after rolling to his feet. He slashed at Kiranrao with his blade, but the Romani vanished again. Shion saw she had fallen and even though she couldn’t walk, she clawed her way closer to the tree, pleading with the Dryad to aid them. Help us! Please!

  Another arrow struck right by her breast, sticking into the dirt where a moment earlier she had collapsed. Shion scooped her up. She heard another arrow hit, only it struck him instead. She felt the jarring force of it stagger him, but he did not fall. Nor did the arrow stick. With a grimace of determination, he began to run toward the tree, and every movement made the pain in her leg more violent. She saw more Weir skulking by the tree, waiting for them, their eyes hungry. Where was Kiranrao? Swallowing the taste of bile in her mouth, Phae knew Shion could not carry her and fight them. There were still too many. She shot forth her hand and let loose another stream of flames, incinerating Weir.

  The tree was unguarded.

  Smoke and crackling heat pressed through the woods as Shion staggered up to the misshapen split trunk. The ground was uneven, the base of the tree lumpy with roots that made each step treacherous. She could feel the wild hammering of Shion’s heart, she was pressed so tightly against him. He cradled her, taking another round of arrows in the back that nearly made him stumble and pitch her. But he did not, he would not give way, he would not relent from his purpose. In her mind, she remembered on the mountaintop near the cabin where Trasen’s arrows had failed to bring him down. His ruthless determination to hunt was part of his character, was part of who he was. A moment of panic began to grow inside her, a fear of what she might learn when she came to know him fully. She stared up at his face, at the claw marks that had always been there . . . sealed into his skin as part of his immortality. The seed of her Dryad self was beginning to bud. She felt it responding to the Mother Tree, unfolding, beckoning to join the roots and earth and light, to drink the rain and taste the fragrances carried on the wind. To be trapped in this horrible place—a prisoner herself if she took the oath. Part of her longed for freedom, a chance to return to Stonehollow, to seek out Trasen and remind him of the feelings she had stolen from him along with his memories.

  All these thoughts and feelings bubbled inside of her, tremulous and raw. But as she looked up, it wasn’t Trasen’s face she found comfort in. He would have perished during the first attacks in the Scourgelands. This man, Shion, whatever his history, had been forged inside this horrible forest. This was his home. His essence was tied to the roots. She could sense his memories see
thing inside the tree in front of her, clawing desperately to get out.

  She stared at his jaw, his chin, his blazing eyes that ignored every threat. His face was so familiar to her now, so comforting. She wished she could tell him how much she needed him, how his steadfastness to her was the only source of comfort left. Her father and Hettie had been abandoned. She wondered if they were even alive. One by one the company had been brought down, all save her and Shion. In his arms, she felt a spark of hope . . . a sliver that perhaps they might survive the horrors together.

  Shion pitched her with all his might toward the gap of the tree. She fell short, of course, landing with startled surprise and agony as the arrow gouged deeper. She spit dirt from her mouth as she lifted her head, shaking it. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Shion locked in combat with Kiranrao, holding the dagger at bay by a strong grip on Kiranrao’s wrist. Suddenly the Romani vanished, only to reappear again on the other side, dagger midstroke. With blazing reflexes, Shion deflected it, stamping on Kiranrao’s foot and bringing an elbow around to crush his nose . . . but again, the Romani disappeared, a phantom impossible to trap and catch.

  Phae watched the desperate duel for a moment, not knowing how it would end. She could not wait a moment. Clawing the ground with her nails, she pulled herself closer to the shaded gap inside the trunk. Her right leg was totally useless, but she dug her left boot up and pushed herself forward, moving as quickly as she could. She reached the edge of the trunk, saw an army of ants groping along the base, oblivious to the carnage raging not far from their spot.

  A cold hand clasped her wrist and she almost looked up, but realized it would be unwise to stare into another Dryad’s eyes. She was pulled up to her feet, but kept her gaze averted, seeing only the Dryad’s bare feet and legs.

  “The name of the bridge,” whispered the Dryad-born, “is Pontfadog.”

  Phae heard the word with her ears, but in her mind she could understand it, could sense the deepness of the meaning. It was an alien language to her, a language long forgotten. But she could sense what it meant.

  Poisonwell.

  That was how her father had translated it. That was how he had attempted to define an idea, a concept that defied explanation. A bridge between two worlds, separated by death. To hear it spoken in its original tongue brought a surge of triumph into Phae’s heart. It sounded . . . familiar—as if it were a word she had learned in childhood but only forgotten.

  “Thank you,” Phae said, gripping the fragile hands that had raised her. She saw the iron ring fastened to one of the fingers.

  “Tell him,” the Dryad pleaded, her voice full of sadness, regret, and fringed with unshed tears, “I am sorry.”

  Alarm struck Phae’s heart when she saw the iron ring. She knew it had the power to explode, to devastate her as well as the tree. She stared at it, expecting her life to be snuffed out, yet somehow it wasn’t. Could the Arch-Rike—Shirikant—not bear to destroy the source of his own Dryad’s kiss? To destroy his own ability to master memories?

  Yes, came the thought to her mind. The hands folded on hers squeezed. Go, Daughter. Tell the Seneschal I am sorry. I betrayed my oath. I am banished from Mirrowen forever. I grieve for all I have lost.

  The grip tightened on her hands.

  Never forsake your oaths, child. Never. Now go!

  Phae turned and looked back, seeing Shion backing toward the tree, daggers back in his hands. Three brown-cloaked archers were advancing, the hoods shielding their faces, gliding through the smoke of the fires Annon had started. A sense of dread and desolation exuded from their presence. Their tattered brown robes were full of decay. They were deathless beings. Phae could sense that from the tree.

  Go!

  “Where can I go?” Phae pleaded. “I cannot walk.”

  Through the portal in the trunk. A Dryad may enter Mirrowen this way. You must go there before you seek Pontfadog. You must swear your oaths. Go, Daughter. I cannot hold off his will much longer.

  The hands clasping hers were trembling. Phae raised them to her lips and kissed them. “I will free you at last, Mother.”

  Phae took all the pain, all the suffering, all the hopelessness and stuffed them in a cocoon inside her heart. She released the Dryad’s hands and pulled the Tay al-Ard Annon had given her from her belt and clutched it to her bosom. With her leg throbbing, she stumbled between the gap in the trunk and found herself in another world.

  XXXIV

  Hettie and Tyrus backed away from the bounding Weir, drawing closer to the rugged wall of the promontory. Lukias and the Arch-Rike’s soldiers were up on the promontory above them. Both ways led to death.

  “It wasn’t much of a chance,” Tyrus muttered darkly. “Grab my arm. The closer they are to us before we vanish, the longer it will take for them to find our—”

  He stopped speaking, his eyes widening with shock as the Tay al-Ard disappeared from his hand.

  A rumble of thunder sounded overhead.

  Hettie’s stomach twisted with the realization that they were stranded. What had happened? She saw the fury in the eyes of the Weir, their teeth bared and ready to shred.

  As one, they both unleashed the fireblood on the charging beasts. Hettie’s heart nearly exploded with fear and desperation. She let the whirl of emotions sweep her up in the temporary euphoria that always accompanied the power. Gushes of blue flames came out as a vortex, blackening the churned earth, igniting the mass of desiccated leaves within, and tearing through the Weir. The thrill almost surpassed her terror, but not quite. They stood shoulder to shoulder, spreading the net of flames through the ground in front of them, trying to create a barrier of flames to hold back their enemies.

  Where dozens fell, dozens more came out.

  Plumes of smoke stained the air with a brown haze, and the flames began to spread across the ground. The Weir darted through the pockets, snarling and howling for their blood.

  There were too many to stop. The next wave was already nearing them.

  “We are defeated!” Tyrus shouted with panic in his voice. “Spare my daughter at least. Let me die, but save her!”

  Hettie’s insides churned as she watched the malevolent looks from the Weir. Their sinews and muscles were bunching, their stride increasing as they loped forward. The wind tousled her hair and she felt another moment of pure panic.

  “Lukias!” Tyrus bellowed in desperation.

  “You murdered her when you chose to bring her here,” Lukias said coldly. “It’s a trick, Tyrus. We both know it.”

  One of the Weir vaulted through the ring of flames and tackled Tyrus, its teeth snapping viciously into his shoulder. He wrestled it around, sending fire into its belly, dissolving it into ash. Hettie ducked as one hurtled over her, dropping into a low Bhikhu stance. With one hand, she sent flames surging into the next row. With her other, she destroyed the one that had gotten past her. Movement surged from every side as Tyrus made it back to his feet. His fingers were like claws themselves as jets of blue flame erupted from his hands, catching several of the Weir.

  Hettie stayed near Tyrus, her face damp with sweat. A hopeless feeling swelled with the panic and she realized they were both going to die or go mad with the fireblood. Already she had used so much of it in the Scourgelands that she was giddy with the notion of unleashing the power fully. Annon had always been more self-controlled than she with the flame. She remembered using it alongside her brother on the road to Havenrook. This was not even a shade in comparison. The guilty relish filled her heart, demanding she push the limits further. What was the point? With the Tay al-Ard gone, they were both doomed. The Arch-Rike suspected a trick. The trick was on them.

  One of the Weir managed to sidestep her attack and its claws ripped into her hip, slashing through the leather pants she wore. She almost didn’t feel the pain when its teeth sank into her knee next, but she slammed her fists down on its head and channeled
enough flame to destroy it. Pain and dizziness began to surface, threatening to break past her desperate struggle to survive. Pain and blood and smoke filled her lungs and she found herself screaming in challenge, delving deeper into the magic of the fireblood, drawing on its infinite power and infinite danger.

  “No, Hettie!” Tyrus warned.

  She heard his words but they were meaningless to her. Another Weir landed in front of her, and she grabbed it by the ruff of its neck and ripped it apart with her magic. Let them come! Let them meet their death! She was enraged, feeling her mind begin to totter over the brink. She no longer cared. If she were going to die in the Scourgelands, she would ruin it. It would be reborn in fire.

  “No!” Tyrus shouted, striking her hard across the face, just as Annon had. While he was turned, two Weir knocked him down, ripping into his flesh. He groaned in pain, twisting quickly and shielding his face from their claws. Fire bloomed again, shattering them both, and he made it up just as another round advanced.

  “Climb, Hettie!” he begged her, retreating to the promontory wall. “That way! Climb!”

  He stood between her and the Weir, his expression full of hate and rage. He took the leather pouch around his neck and put it in his mouth, beginning to chew on the bag. It contained monkshood, the dose she did not know. He would chew on it, dissolving it with his saliva until it entered his system. It would kill him, but not until after he had released the full power.