The Lost Abbey: A Banished of Muirwood Prequel

by Jeff Wheeler

  There was a face carved into the rock.

  Maia approached it curiously, knowing it was the same Leering she had encountered during the night. The boulder was taller than her, but not as tall as a man. Its front was furrowed with growth and vines, but something had been chiseled midway up its surface. The face did not resemble any creature she knew, and the carving was so old and ravaged that it hinted more than revealed. Newer patterns and designs had been chiseled into the stone surrounding the face. The newer patterns defied her knowledge of the Dochte Mandar lore she had studied in her mentor’s tome.

  She stepped closer to the Leering and saw where water had eroded the soil at its base. The ground was still damp. Did the Leering have another purpose as well? Whispers from the Medium came into her mind, and she paused to listen. They had started coming to her after she had first put on the kystrel. The whispers of knowledge were part of its magic. She understood them. The boulder was not just a water Leering but a waymarker—a totem of magic that led to their destination, the lost abbey. There would be other waymarkers along the route. Gingerly, she reached out and touched the boulder. Its surface was rough and cold beneath her skin. The kystrel burned inside her bodice again and she tried to stop it, but could not resist the forceful surge. The strange eyes on the boulder glowed, an effect that soon spread across its seams and the pockmarks in its contorted visage. It glowed like molten ore, as if internal pressure would cause the boulder to shatter.

  Water rushed from a small opening on the face of the rock. It fell to the base, gathering and pooling. Maia was dazed, feeling the magic in the Leering respond to her touch and to the kystrel. It was beginning to make sense. The kystrels of the Dochte Mandar were truly an inheritance from the past, a time when mastons had previously ruled the kingdoms. The order had been controlling who learned the use of the magic for centuries, but its beginnings went further back into history. The water flowed gently, cleanly, churning up a small stream in moments. She dipped her hand and drank. The water was clean and wonderful.

  Kneeling by the stream, she cupped her hand and drank again. It was only water, not some potion or elixir. She quickly scrubbed the dirt from her arms and face, feeling the wetness sting the spider scabs.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  The kishion’s voice had a barb of anger in it.

  Maia looked up and glared at him. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, suppressing her irritation with the kishion and the startled feeling that came because she had not heard him approach. The small stream began soaking her skirt at the knees and so she stood.

  He was a rough man. All the kishion were. In the dark, it was almost easy to forget what he looked like during the day. His face was a patchwork of lumps and scars, one a ribbed slash from a dagger that had raked him from eye to lip. Part of one ear was missing. His eyes were full of hate, full of wrath—eyes as grayish blue as the water churning at her feet. His cowl was up, but she could see the coarse brown hair that fell across his forehead. Always in somber grays and browns, he blended with the woodlands as if he were made of nothing but anger and bark.

  “I was thirsty.” Her throat was suddenly dry again.

  “You were thirsty.” He stepped closer. “If one of them had seen you, what then?”

  “I am sorry,” she said. “An ancient magic is in these woods. It speaks to me. It has spoken to me since we came ashore.”

  “Quit listening to it,” he tersely responded. “You will get us both killed.”

  She chewed her lip and felt her own anger rise up. “My ability to use this magic may be the only thing that saves us all, kishion.” She loaded the term with as much loathing and contempt as she could muster. “It is why we are here.”

  His face curved into some sort of sardonic smile. The scar on his lip twitched. “I do not doubt it,” he whispered.

  Maia licked her lips and gestured to the stone. “This Leering is a waymarker. There are more along the way. I had not expected a trail to lead to the lost abbey, but after touching this one, I know where to find the next. I do not know what else we may find, but we must go that way.” She pointed.

  “More spiders there as well, perhaps?”

  She winced and shuddered at the memory. “I pray not. Bring the others this way. We can go through the woods.”

  The kishion nodded. “You missed a spot of mud, Lady. Or is that a bruise?” He motioned with his gloved hand. She looked down and saw that her bodice was sagging low. It did not reveal the kystrel, but the shadowed flesh did indeed look like a bruise.

  “I struck the rail yesterday,” she lied.

  A short cough of a chuckle. “I am sure you did.” The expression on his face told her that he knew she was lying—again. The kishion turned and padded silently into the woods, and then whistled sharply for the soldiers.

  Maia turned her back to him, quickly adjusting the loose bodice. She saw the small bronze medallion of the kystrel dangling from its strong chain. The shadowstain on her chest was spreading, crawling beneath her skin. It was like a tattoo of black lines and sigils, a whorl of leaves and vines and seaweed. And it mushroomed on her skin every time she used the magic, adding new rings to the pattern. Maia closed her eyes and fought the feelings of dread in her heart. She knew of Dochte Mandar with painted faces and shoulders. It was the mark of the magic on its user.

  She wondered how much longer she would be able to keep hers secret.

  * * *

  “Ow! Too hot, that one! Is it squirming loose yet? How many times have you poked it?”

  Maia heard the voice through the trees. The soldiers clustered together, each man stripped to the waist, checking one another for ticks. She sat like stone, her arms clamped around her knees, while the kishion searched the skin on her back for more. The lacings of her gown were undone in the back, exposing the skin, but she hugged herself to keep the sleeves on and tugged the fabric up over her shoulder whenever it slipped. She had already found two that morning—one on the inside of her thigh and the other on her arm, just below her elbow. Though it embarrassed her, she had asked the kishion to assist her with the ones she could not get to herself.

  Festering scabs covered all the soldiers. There were so many ticks in the woods that it took an hour just to prick them loose with a hot needle each morning. They were three days into the cursed woods of the land south of the Spike of Dahomey. Three waymarkers had been discovered so far, each one near the end of the day. Their water reserves were low, and while there were streams throughout the lands, slashing through the broken trees and brambles, the water tasted spoiled.

  “Hold still, there are two more,” the kishion said, pinching the skin on her lower back. “Let me tease them out. If the needle is still warm enough.”

  Maia ducked her head and brushed the hair away from her neck. She could feel the kishion’s breath on her back and felt her stomach clench with humiliation. He clucked his tongue and swore and she felt a stab of pain at her back.

  “Almost done,” he muttered. “There is one. Now for the brother. There we are. Hold still.”

  Pain stung her again, making her eyes water. She bit her lip. He pinched the spot to make it bleed a little.

  “How much farther must we wander in these cursed woods?” Captain Rawlt said in a bellowing voice, storming over to where they sat. Maia felt even more mortified as she pressed the gown to keep it from falling or revealing any more of her skin. The kishion snorted and plucked the last tick away. He helped tug the dress up and began tightening the lacings.

  Rawlt had a fresh scab on his cheek. “We have lingered here for three days, my lady. If it takes much longer to find it, we won’t have time to cross back and reach the Spike. It takes a ship twelve to fourteen days to maneuver the winds in full circle. If we do not find the ruins in three days, we must turn back.”

  “A moment so I can finish dressing, Captain!” she said angrily.

  “Oh, for the Blood, woman! I have seen enough—”

 
“You will not see the king’s daughter! Now turn around, please!”

  Rawlt swore in frustration, but he obeyed her and turned on his heel. Maia felt vindicated and hurriedly adjusted the bodice to hide the kystrel and its stain. The kishion finished tightening the lacings and helped her to her feet—so strange that a killer showed more respect than a captain—and then crushed something under his boot.

  “I was saying, Lady Maia, that we are fast running out of time,” Rawlt said over his shoulder. “The ship will not linger for very long. If we do not meet it on time, it may well leave us behind. These are not your father’s lands, my lady. I can quip well enough with the Naestors, but someone speaking Dahomeyjan would know us by our speech.”

  “I know how many days we have lost, Captain, and I can speak Dahomeyjan. But I do not know how many more waymarkers are there to lead the way. If they were ever numbered, it has worn off over hundreds of years. If I—”

  Captain Rawlt drew his sword and swung it down, cutting a snake in half. “By the Blood, this land will be the death of us.” His arm trembled as he stared at the writhing serpent near his boot. It had slithered up so quickly that Maia had not seen it until after.

  He swung around, facing her again, his eyes livid. “Two more days. I will give you two more days. Then we leave, with or without you and your stinking kishion.”

  Maia felt blistering outrage. “When my father hears of this—”

  His face contorted with anger. “The Dochte Mandar take your father! He should never have expelled them from the realm and started this madness. Two days, Lady Maia. That is all I will promise you.”

  Maia clenched her hands. Could she force him to obey with the kystrel? Should she? Anger churned alive inside her. Anger toward her father, for sending her here with such pitiful escorts, on an errand that might kill her. After three days of spiders, snakes, ticks, and heat, she understood why no one had settled the land below the Spike. It was full of creatures hunting for prey. She needed the soldiers to offer some protection along the way. What other terrors awaited them, she could only guess.

  You will all die in this place. This is the place where death was born.

  Maia shuddered at the Medium’s whisper. She glanced at the scar-faced kishion and gave him a nod of thanks. He seemed amused by it and walked away without saying anything.

  * * *

  The fifth waymarker was in a grove full of bones.

  “By Idumea’s hand,” Hsop whispered, his eyes widening. Maia watched him as he knelt near the encrusted shell of a breastplate that was caved in beneath the pressure of a spearhead. The tarnished helmet was askew, and he struggled to open its rusted hinges. The skull was brittle and became dust at his touch.

  Kent stalked the perimeter and then grabbed the hilt of a sword. It too was crusted, and the blade had been snapped in the middle. “It’s rusted,” he said. “Flakes of it. I have never seen a battlefield like this before. How many do you think there were?”

  Captain Rawlt kicked part of the wreckage and muttered something under his breath before he spoke up. “. . . and easily five thousand dead. See how they are mounded up near the waymarker? Probably even more dead over there. This place . . . by the Blood, you can still feel it.” He had his sword out and ready, yet rubbed his arm as if chilled. “Almost like . . . you can hear them still screaming.” He looked intensely at Maia. “Study the waymarker, Lady. Hurry now. Find out where the next one is if you can. I do not like the look. Where is the sun? This mist has not left since morning.”

  Maia stared at the chasm made up of the dead. The past days she had pretended to decipher the carved sigils on the stones to give her an excuse to touch them. The whispers had always come, coaxing her in the direction they should go next. This time, she could hear voices in her mind even before nearing the waymarker. No one had survived the battle that had happened here hundreds of years ago. Not one man had been left to bury the dead or claim their blades or armor. The tunics had all dissolved, revealing nothing about the loyalties of the combatants.

  “Go on, Lady! We cannot dwell here long. It . . . it feels not right being here.”

  Maia bit her lip and stepped onto the field of carnage. The footing was treacherous. It took all her concentration to keep from stumbling upon the hordes of dead. Verrick wandered the perimeter and returned with several weapons. The hilts had corroded, but the blades had been trapped inside the scabbards and were still good.

  “Look at these, Captain,” Verrick said. “Still got an edge to them. I’ve never seen this kind of forge pattern, though. Ripples. Is not that strange?”

  Maia listened to his voice as she crossed the remaining steps to the waymarker. Like the others, its face was nearly worn away. As she reached out to touch it, something heavy in the woods made the trees shudder and drew their attention. Limbs snapped and crashed, and a heavy cough and snuffling sound boomed in the stillness. Maia froze, staring at the spot behind them. Her eyes widened with fear. She noticed mist descending from the branches above.

  “Captain! Over there!”

  A blur of gray hide and claws smashed through the woods, bigger around than an oak tree and taller than two horses. One of the beast’s paws slammed into Kent, sending him sailing into a tree with a sickening sound. The thing let out a roar before snatching up the man’s body with hooked claws and disappearing back into the woodlands. The mist continued to thicken around them, blurring their vision and closing in like crushing walls.

  Rawlt sounded desperate. “Verrick! Take that flank! Hsop! You go that way. I got the middle. Adler? Where are you, man? Adler!” The soldier was nowhere to be seen. “Kishion! Get over there. You go around behind it if you can. A Fear Liath, I think. I want everyone—”

  The instructions were useless. The thing bounded from the woods and fog again without even a growl and came up on Rawlt like a charging bull. Maia screamed as the captain took a blow to the chest that flung him halfway across the field of the dead. The kishion was like a blur himself, two knives in his hands as he slipped up to the creature and stabbed beneath its hairy limbs. Hsop struck at its flank, hacking at it with his sword to no effect. An angry bark came from the beast, and it rounded on Hsop and trampled him. Maia thought she would faint at the sounds it made doing so. Rawlt struggled to his feet, his face full of blood, and tried to find his fallen sword. The stench of the creature filled the air. Maia’s mind went blank with sheer terror.

  “Kill it! Get it off Hsop!” Verrick shouted, stabbing at its other flank. The creature was incredibly strong and cunning. It took the sword thrusts and barked, whipping its huge limbs around and staggering them. Nothing seemed to injure it. As if suffering a mere annoyance, the beast grabbed Verrick and bit down on his side with huge yellow teeth. The kishion stabbed at it again and again before he was struck by a whipping paw and tossed to the earth.

  Maia knew the battle would only last for a few more seconds before they were all dead and it came for her. The kystrel needed little more than that thought to act on its own. The magic of the Medium surged up within her, bringing her to her feet. It struck the beast with a blast of fear and made the wind howl through the trees, driving away the mist. Shafts of sunlight slanted into the grove, exposing the creature’s pale gray fur. Thunder crackled overhead as Maia unleashed the kystrel’s power again. The pendant could not resist her thoughts . . . and her fear . . . as she focused them on the hulking monster. Four short barks came out of its gnarled snout and it fled back into the thick woodlands.

  Water gushed from the waymarker’s mouth behind her, startling her.

  Rawlt tried to make it to his feet, but his legs wobbled and he crashed down. Blood smeared across his face. Verrick’s writhing stilled as his lifeblood drained away from his shattered hip. A booming bark erupted from the woodlands, far away, but still close enough to send shivers through Maia. The kishion was back on his feet, clutching a tear in his shirt and a wet slash on his chest.

  Maia staggered away from the waymarker, stumbling
in the debris of battered armor and skeletons, to help, but stopped short when she saw the brutal look on Rawlt’s face.

  “Your eyes are glowing, Lady. I swear by Idumea, I see your eyes . . . like silver.”

  Adler slunk from the trees, holding his weapon and trembling with fear. His face had a grayish cast and his eyes were red from crying.

  Maia licked her lips. “You have a duty, Captain,” she reminded him sharply. “My father sent you to escort me to the lost abbey!” She was terrified by the monster they had faced, sickened by the death of so many of her guardians. Her courage was wilting, but she clenched her fists to steady herself and kept her voice strong.

  “Your father!” he spat. Rawlt coughed and nearly choked. “If your father knows what you are, then may the Blight smite us all. Only the Dochte Mandar can use the amulets. No woman has been allowed to do so since the ships returned. It is too strong a thing, too wild a thing to trust to the knowledge of a . . . woman.” He coughed into his fist and brought up his sword. “I know . . . I must . . . I should kill you. It would not be murder.”

  Maia had expected this reaction. Using the kystrel had hardened some of her feelings. She would use it against him if she had the need. “I will not let you kill me, Captain.” With her hand on her bosom, she wrestled with the magic aching inside her. It wanted to rip through Rawlt’s anger, slashing it like a soft cheese.

  One of the men shouted, “Captain! Behind you!”

  The kishion struck like a snake, slipping behind Rawlt and wrestling beneath the captain’s sword arm to bring a long-knife to his throat.

  No! Maia sent a blast of the magic at the kishion, stunning him and keeping the blade from shearing through the captain’s neck. Rawlt sputtered an oath and shoved away from the man. With eyes full of hate, he charged Maia through the debris of the dead. The kystrel surged, snapping her control of it like a frail tether, and struck him with its power. Wind shrieked and howled, whistling and keening through the trees. His expression filled with loathing and fear as the gale shoved him backward. Bone dust and rust flakes blinded and stung him. Tarnished helmets rattled loose from the pile before smashing into him. He shielded his face and tried again to press through the winds. Thunder rumbled in the air. Maia saw the other soldier fleeing into the woods. Giant trees swayed with the gale, and water gushed from the waymarker in a river.