by Jeff Wheeler
The Scourge of Muirwood
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE:
CHAPTER TWO:
CHAPTER THREE:
CHAPTER FOUR:
CHAPTER FIVE:
CHAPTER SIX:
CHAPTER SEVEN:
CHAPTER EIGHT:
CHAPTER NINE:
CHAPTER TEN:
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
CHAPTER TWELVE:
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
CHAPTER TWENTY:
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE:
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO:
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE:
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR:
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE:
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN:
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT:
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE:
CHAPTER THIRTY:
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE:
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO:
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE:
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR:
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE:
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX:
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN:
Epilogue
The Scourge of Muirwood
The Muirwood Trilogy
Book Three
Jeff Wheeler
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jeff Wheeler
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Print edition available
The Muirwood Trilogy
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
“I fear everything. This island terrifies me. There are secrets here that I am beginning to discover. My past. My family. Who I am. These tools are awkward in my hands. It is difficult to describe it. I am used to the laundry, not this vast place full of mirrors. The Leerings here frighten me as well. So ancient. So powerful. The Aldermaston suggested I use this tome to explore my feelings and confront my fears. I must be ready to face the maston test before I can save the kingdoms and before the Blight destroys everyone. So this is what I fear the most. I fear losing the man I love. I fear losing Colvin.”
- Ellowyn Demont of Dochte Abbey
CHAPTER ONE:
Whispers of Death
They rode on horseback, side by side, down a road overgrown with the twisted limbs of monstrous oak trees. The air was full of gnats and gossamer threads of spider silk that gently tickled the face. Martin wiped his cheek hurriedly, staring into the dark woods on either side. The bend ahead was blind – the perfect location for a trap.
“By Cheshu,” Martin muttered. “I like not the look of that corner. I do not. This forsaken wood is the only road to Comoros, is it?” He hissed softly then sniffed at the air, listening with keenness for a sign of the warning that throbbed silently in his heart.
At his side was the man Martin served – the king-maston of Pry-Ree. Martin was the older of the two, but the king had a youthful face. He did not look like a king, for he dressed in a simple shirt and an unassuming leather vest. His hair was an untamed mass of gold, shorn like a sheep at the nape of his neck. There was a somber expression on his face, which was normal as he was a man who mused silently much of the day and even more since hatching the plot of a secret marriage to Demont’s daughter. But a smile crept almost unnoticed at times to his mouth, betraying some hidden thought of mirth. He was Alluwyn Lleu-Iselin, though Martin never would have called him by his common name for he was a man Martin respected and trusted above any other, including the band of men known as the Evnissyen who now clustered around their king, halting as they had halted.
In short, the Evnissyen were the king’s protectors and Martin had trained them all. It was much more than simply that. The Evnissyen were hunters, thieves, schemers, dice-throwers, warriors – the mind in the shadows, whispering advice to their leader. Martin was the man the king turned to after his royal counselors had all argued their positions, blustered for favors and lands, or even plotted his death. The Evnissyen knew all the tangles in the skeins of power and they ruthlessly plucked at them like harp strings. Martin thought this with satisfaction. It was in his instincts to smell trouble. He smelled it on the road to Comoros.
Lord Alluwyn paused his mount and tugged open the pouch fastened to his wide leather belt. He was a king-maston, the glimpse of his chaen just a hint beneath the open collar of his shirt, but he referred to himself as only a prince in his title. Of the Three Blessed Kings of Pry-Ree, he was the wisest, the youngest, and the most worthy to rule them all. Which is why the others had already been assassinated, leaving his brother and nephew as co-rulers – neither of whom were mastons or very wise.
Digging into the pouch, the Prince removed a small globe made of refined aurichalcum. It glimmered in the shadows, which made Martin impatient, wondering if anyone skulking in the woods would see it. Staring at the orb, the Prince watched as the spindles set in the upper half began to whirl and spin. Writing appeared in the lower half of the orb. Martin squinted at the tiny markings that only mastons could read. “Well?”
The Prince’s face paled. He looked furtively at the road ahead, his face more serious than before. His voice was soft with warning. “A kishion in the shadows ahead. The orb bids me west.”
“Into the swamp?”
“The kishion does not want the others in our train, only me. Send them on after we are gone. You ride with me, Martin. Send the rest on to Muirwood.”
The Prince did not hesitate after that. Wrapping the reins in one fist, he stamped his stallion’s flanks with his spurs and charged into the murky depths of the oak trees. Furious, Martin hissed orders and a warning to the rest of the Evnissyen guard and then rode hard after the Prince. The trees whipped and slashed him as he fought to keep up. The thrill of the chase burned in his stomach. Draw the kishion after them in the moors. Throw him off his original plan – make him react to their movements.
The hunter is patient. The prey is careless.
The kishion was being careless. Not long after charging into the woods, Martin heard the crack of limbs, the thud of hooves from behind. The pay must be considerable for the kishion to risk being so noisy. Martin slowed his beast slightly, listening. The sound of pursuit was gaining on him. Grabbing his bow, he shrugged his boot out of the stirrup and flung himself off the horse, rolling into the mud and muck and then flattening himself against a stunted oak tree. Muddy water dripped down his face and he brushed it away with his hand, cursing. He had an arrow nocked and darted past several other trees, back-tracking. He did not worry about the Prince. He had the orb and could make it to Muirwood without aid from a hunter.
A blur of brown with a milk-stain patch on the nose revealed the pursuer’s horse. The kishion was low against the saddle, his mouth twisted into a scowl.
Martin brought back the arrow and loosed it. The kishion saw the motion and swung around the saddle horn the other way, lurching away as the arrow sank into the horse’s neck. There was a shriek, a spurt of blood, and then the horse went down. Martin sloshed through the swamp water, drawing another arrow.
&nb
sp; The kishion emerged and he sailed the arrow at the killer. Kishion were hired for two purposes. To protect or to kill. So quick, the kishion spun aside and the arrow sank into the tree behind him. A dagger appeared in the kishion’s hand and it was Martin’s turn to throw himself back as it whistled by his ear.
The two glared at each other, circling, drawn closer. There was no taunting—no attempt to persuade or deny. There was only the imminent conflict of sharp-edged blades. Martin drew his gladius and a dagger. He poked the air in front of him, as if testing the distance separating them. He motioned for the other to attack first.
The kishion obliged and lunged at him, a new blade in his hand, going straight for Martin’s throat. Their bodies locked for a moment, jabs, cuts, feints, thrusts. Then they parted, circling the other way, eyes locked on each other. Martin’s teeth were clenched tight, revealing a sickening half-grin. Again the kishion charged him, deftly stabbing at his inner thigh, his fingers clawing towards Martin’s eyes. Their arms and limbs smashed against each other. Then they were separated again. There was blood blooming on the kishion’s sleeve. Both of them were breathing hard.
“You…you trained…among us,” the kishion whispered darkly.
Martin’s grin became more pronounced. “You noticed.”
Maybe the kishion was losing his strength. Maybe he realized he was already a dead man. He struck at Martin one last time and then he was subdued, arm twisted in a brutal lock behind him, the blade dropping from the agony of the hold. Martin then encircled his arm around the kishion’s neck and dropped him like a stone into the murky swamp water until his head was submerged. Martin clenched and squeezed, burying his weight into the man’s back, holding him beneath the water as he flailed and struggled for breath. A few more moments starved for air, a thrashing violent and desperate, but Martin shrugged harder, squeezing and holding him. He felt something break in his neck.
The struggle ended. He waited longer to be sure, not trusting his instincts. Then he released the dead man and fished through the waters for his fallen gladius. He cleaned it and sheathed it and only then noticed the Prince watching him, his face askew with emotion.
Martin looked at him gruffly. “It was foolish to ride back, my Prince. What if I had lost? A kishion can kill even a maston.”
The Prince stared at the corpse, his face in anguish. Martin scowled. He had killed many men in war and hired killers were no one to feel sympathy for. “Ride on, my Prince. I will search the body for clues as to the one who hired him.”
The Prince stared in silence and shook his head. “I am not squeamish, Martin. It is just what I saw as you drowned him. I saw a girl being drowned by a kishion.”
Martin looked around in confusion. “He was certainly a man, my lord. Not even I would drown a woman.”
“You might,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “If I asked it of you. If the woman…deserved it. No, what I saw was in the future. A young girl in a dressing gown. The kishion tried to drown her.” He trembled for a moment, shaking his head as if dispelling a nightmare. Then he looked down at the orb.
Martin tugged on the collar of the kishion to hoist him out of the mucky waters. The corpse was limp and soaked.
“Leave him,” the Prince said. “We both know who sent him.”
“You suspect the treasonous king then? The king you are visiting Comoros to treat with?” Martin said waspishly. “By Cheshu, even with a safe conduct granted, he would try and murder you?”
Prince Alluwyn smirked. “No, the king did not send the kishion. It was his wife.”
“The wife? You say it is her? She must be devious and cunning if you suspect her and not her lord.”
“There are things I know through the maston ways, Martin. I have long suspected this. There are stories that the kings of Dahomey send only their daughters to negotiate treaties. They are notable for their subtlety. There are reasons I cannot explain to you further.”
Martin sighed and let the corpse fall with a splash. He made sure the gladius was snug in its scabbard and fished his blade out of the murk and sheathed it in his belt. “We ride to Muirwood then?”
A curious look and a subtle shake of his head came as the reply. “The orb bids me further west. We must ride, while there is still daylight in this accursed swamp.”
“Not to Muirwood?”
“Trust me, old friend,” he said, his eyes intense. “There is a grove of trees we must visit. Ride with me, Martin. Tell no one what we do.”
“The king is expecting us in Comoros in less than a fortnight.” He scratched his throat and started towards his own mount. “He is not a patient man. He will take it amiss if we are late.”
The Prince was staring westward, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. “I know, Martin. But the way is becoming more clear. The swamp whispers to me. It whispers of death.” He sighed. “It whispers of my death.”
CHAPTER TWO:
Binding Sigil
The fragrance of the Cider Orchard enmeshed with Lia’s memories and the churn of feelings she worried would overwhelm her. Throughout her childhood at Muirwood Abbey, she had fled to the Cider Orchard. The tightly clustered rows of trees made it easier to hide and escape kitchen chores. She had plucked hundreds of apples from their stems and nestled in the grass to savor them. She had witnessed the orchard blooming with blossoms or wreathed in smoky mist. The thoughts evoked memories of rushing with Sowe and Colvin to escape the sheriff’s men through the orchard. Of Getman Smith finding her there and squeezing her arm. One of her most painful memories happened there as well – when Colvin had rejected her and left her alone in the mud and dripping branches. But it was also the place where he had found her again, later, and asked for her help in saving Ellowyn Demont.
Ellowyn Demont.
The name invoked such tangled feelings – hate, envy, pity, respect, jealousy. Especially jealousy. Lia leaned against a tree trunk in the twilight, sighing deeply, stifling a sob, and clenched her fists. Colvin had found Ellowyn at Sempringfall Abbey, sentenced there as a wretched after the kingdom of Pry-Ree was vanquished. She grew up unaware of her name, known as Hillel Lavender because she worked at the laundry. But things were not as they seemed. Hillel was not the real Ellowyn Demont. For some reason, for some cruel reason, Lia had learned too late that she herself was the missing heir of Pry-Ree. She had sacrificed herself for the other girl, believing that Hillel was the true person and bound for Dochte Abbey to warn them of the coming of the Blight. But it was not Hillel that needed to go. It was Lia, her leg still throbbing and healing, her hand still aching from the arrow that had transfixed it. The injuries she had sustained were not what pained her the most. It was jealousy – pure jealousy – that the other girl was traveling by sea to Dahomey to warn the inhabitants of Dochte Abbey. She was not traveling alone, but with Colvin.
The ache became worse. It robbed her ability to think. She had always known herself as Lia Cook. It was every wretched’s deepest dream to learn of their parentage. Why had events turned out in such a way? Why was it that Colvin had been led to Sempringfall to find the girl, and not to Muirwood? What would have happened if she had been allowed to spend a year with Colvin, as Hillel had, learning languages and scriving, being able to participate in the politics of her uncle, Garen Demont, instead of shying away from them, always too fearful. Did the Aldermaston of Muirwood know the truth? Had he always known?
The jealousy coalesced into anger. The Prince of Pry-Ree, her very own father, had visited Muirwood before her birth. The Aldermaston of Tintern knew who she was. She coughed with a half-chuckle. He had even promised to tell her when she returned from Dochte Abbey. She remembered the pity in his eyes. But still, he had not told her the truth. It was the Cruciger orb, a gift left with her when she was abandoned as a baby, that had revealed the truth at last. The Aldermaston knew. He must have known. Yet he had deliberately deceived her. The anger boiled. She had to know why. Colvin was escorting the wrong person to Dahomey. The thought made her
feel black inside.
Pushing away from the smooth-bark of the apple tree, she strode towards the Manor house. It was dusk and torches shone in sconces on the walls. She walked furiously but with a limp. She knew she should not, that her leg would throb that night as she tried to fall asleep, but she did not care. The Abbey walls seemed luminous that night, as if the very stones radiated moonlight before the silver orb appeared in the sky. She loved the Abbey with all her heart. It was part of her. Beneath her hunter’s garb, she wore a soft, woven chaen shirt. It reminded her of the maston vows she had made inside. She was a maston, as her father and her mother had been. Being a maston was part of her heritage.
Lia reached the manor house and thrust open the door. Something caught her eye in the corner outside, some movement. She glanced but saw nothing. From the corner of her eye, it had seemed like a person – a man wearing hunter garb. She paused, staring at the spot, but she could see nothing. She shook her head, realizing that there were many knight-mastons wandering the grounds since the battle. It was probably one of them.
She approached the Aldermaston’s door and opened it without knocking first. She regretted it instantly. The Aldermaston looked haggard at his desk, his eyes red with veins and swollen with lack of sleep. His left hand trembled on the desk, a sign of his age and the strain he had endured. He was talking to Garen Demont, her uncle.
“I am sorry,” she offered as their heads turned towards her.
“Is something the matter, Lia?” the Aldermaston said.
“I am sorry for interrupting you,” she said, nodding respectfully at Demont. Her eyes blazed as she stared at the Aldermaston. “I must speak with you.”
“Come in then, child.” His eyes became wary, seeing the flush on her cheeks and the brooding anger in her eyes. “Shut the door. Have you met our hunter, Earl Demont?”