Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Erasmus needed no convincing. “The odds of surviving until daybreak have just improved,” he said.

  Paedrin lingered amidst the campfire a moment, then followed them down the hillside. The mist continued to fall until it engulfed them all in a fetid-smelling cloud. A terrible roar sounded behind them, splitting the air with a shriek that went down into Annon’s marrow. It was close behind them. Very close. There was a shuffling noise in the distance. The Fear Liath was tracking them.

  The Cruithne increased his pace, each step announcing their location with thunder. If a small tree stood in the way, he simply went through it, snapping the trunk and causing it to crash awkwardly away. Redwoods towered over them, but the lower branches were lost in the thick gauze of milky white fog.

  Annon nearly twisted his ankle on a root, and Hettie helped catch him before he fell. He wanted to keep turning around, but Paedrin scowled at him and gestured to keep his eyes on the Cruithne ahead. The shuffling noise grew louder, turning into a bark-like sound.

  “This way,” boomed the deep voice as he approached a lightning-struck redwood, one that had fallen and shattered so that only the tangle of exposed roots lay revealed. The thorny fingers of the roots made it seem like some enormous monster, but it was hollowed out by fire and created a small cave. It was not quite tall enough to stand in, but the Cruithne did not hesitate; he hunched forward and entered the cave-like entrance of the tree stump.

  Hettie followed and Annon came up behind her. The Cruithne was breathing fast, but he stopped to rest along the curved structure of the cave. Erasmus joined them and chafed his hands for warmth. His breath came in puffs of smoke. Paedrin stood outside, staring into the maw of the tree. The mist trailed off his shoulders. He turned back and stared into the fog, at the sound of the approaching hulk.

  The Cruithne watched him, saying nothing. “Stubborn one,” he murmured softly.

  Hettie nodded in agreement. “Paedrin!” she snapped. “Get in here!”

  “It’s a tree stump,” he replied, not looking back.

  “It is a gate to Mirrowen,” the Cruithne whispered.

  “What?” the Bhikhu said. “You speak in riddles.”

  “Trust us,” Annon soothed. “There is shelter here. Come.”

  Paedrin hesitated a moment longer. Stubborn defiance seemed to make knots in his shoulders. His one arm was strapped to his side, but he still looked menacing, waiting for a battle. Waiting to test himself against his fears?

  “Who are you?” Annon asked the Cruithne.

  “My name is Drosta,” he answered.

  Paedrin whirled at that, his eyes wide with interest. He stepped into the cave-like opening, crouching so as not to brush his head against the root fingers. The chill of the mist began to dissipate. The fog started to fall apart.

  There was a roar, a roar of helpless frustration and fury.

  “The Fear Liath is blind to us now,” the Cruithne said with a mocking smile. “That angers it.”

  “Why can’t it find us?” Paedrin said, staring at the old man’s face.

  “You would not understand if I explained it. What was important is that I won your trust in as few words as possible. In desperate moments, scorching truth is needed, not convincing argument. We do not have long to speak. What I must say is crucially important. Listen for as long as you can.”

  Annon was about to interrupt, but the Cruithne held up his massive, thick hand. “You will be asleep in moments and will awake at sunrise in a different place. This is a gateway to Mirrowen, and you will suffer the effects to mortals. Remember as much as you can. A little learning, indeed, may be a dangerous thing, but the want of learning is a calamity to any people. That has been the failing of Kenatos. Not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of wisdom. My name was Drosta Paracelsus. And you have found my blade. I fashioned it. I made it. It is called the Iddawc.”

  He motioned for Annon to produce it. As he uncovered it from within his cloak, the Cruithne’s face crumpled into a dark scowl. “It lives. It is a spirit weapon. There is a spirit hosted inside it, and Iddawc is its name. Knowing this, you can control it. There is only one being such as this in all of this world or Mirrowen. It was discovered by the Cruithne deep in the mines. I cannot tell you how many were killed before we learned what it was capable of doing. It was a Druidecht who warned us, but I was foolish. I knew it would be valuable to trap such a being. I devised a plan, and the Arch-Rike approved the price. I will not tell you the price, for it would be unseemly. We did not trap it; we helped it transform. It was my vanity, my pride. You see, power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did, and it never will.”

  As Drosta spoke, Annon felt his mind growing thick and foggy. He was weary. More weary than he had ever been in his life. Glancing to the side, he saw that Erasmus was already asleep, jaw open. Hettie’s chin was bobbing as she struggled to stay awake.

  Drosta grabbed Annon’s shoulder and squeezed with his powerful fingers, digging in to invoke pain. “It concedes nothing! You are a Druidecht as well. The spirits have told me that you are faithful. You must listen to me. The Paracelsus in Kenatos are trapping spirits, binding them into service. The lamps of the city do not create smoke. They do not create heat. Their light is borrowed by spirits, who are enslaved for a season. The terms are odious to them. They are slaves! They are compelled to serve because they were captured. The Cruithne learned the craft. We created the Paracelsus order. Stay awake!”

  Annon’s eyes drooped shut and he blinked furiously. His arm throbbed with pain. But even that was beginning to subside.

  “The weapon only serves one master at a time. It will only serve one. It will seek a powerful man and subvert him. When he is dead, it will seek out another. This is the Iddawc’s hunger, its terrible power. It kills and has power over death. One cut from its blade severs the life’s string. It was commissioned by the Arch-Rike as a weapon for his most feared protector, the Quiet Kishion, but it was never used as such. Tyrus of Kenatos arranged to have it stolen. To be hidden from the world without claiming more victims.”

  “Can it be destroyed?” Paedrin asked. He was down on one knee, gazing intently at the huge man.

  “Never,” he replied. “The Iddawc cannot be unmade. It will exist until its length of service has expired. That is well beyond my lifetime or even a dozen lifetimes. It was bound for ten generations. We are only in the second right now. It cannot be destroyed and must be hidden and safeguarded. It has no master but seeks one. I can hear it right now, and it disgusts me because even I crave it. I, who created this evil thing, in my foolish vanity I brought it into existence. A weapon to conquer death.”

  The final words were slurred and Annon felt his head bob. He struggled against the sinking oblivion of sleepiness. “Be wiser than I. Those of Kenatos are treacherous and claim to preserve knowledge. They preserve slavery, the slavery of beings that they cannot even see. What sympathy exists in a kingdom that enslaves others? When a civilization quietly submits to such a practice, you will have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong that will be imposed upon them. I have spent my days attempting to redress the damage that I inflicted on the spirits of Mirrowen.” He gripped the talisman around his neck, tears bulging in his eyes. “They know my heart and they trust me. I was once their greatest adversary. Now I am like you. A humble Druidecht.” He leaned forward, his voice husky with emotion. “Tyrus knows this truth as well. He and I are brothers in mind. We are likeminded. Remember this. It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. Forgive him for abandoning you. It cost him greatly. But there is so much at stake. So very much at stake.”

  Annon heard the mumbling bass of Drosta’s words, felt the pain recede in his shoulder as he floated into the invisible threads of slumber. The horrors of the mountains faded. The chill night air was replaced with a comforting warmth. He thought he could smell flowers, not night jasmine but the heady scent of hyacinths and roses. There was a trickling of water, the soft lapping sounds carryin
g him away.

  Remember.

  Remember.

  Remember.

  “I once caught a young Rike tearing a page from an ancient book. I chastised him severely and rebuked him for violating his sworn duty to preserve knowledge. He said the page contained blasphemy and that it should be destroyed by fire so as not to taint the minds of men in the future. After a scolding and a thrashing, I told him that if the truth cannot bear the scrutiny of candlelight, what will it do if exposed to the sun? He apologized profusely for his error and swore he had only destroyed three such pages out of one hundred books. The Arch-Rike assured me that he would be assigned to a stewardship other than the Archives. The young make so many mistakes. They lack wisdom.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  Sleep enveloped Annon like a shroud, burying him beneath layers of warm blackness. There were voices murmuring in the stillness, the faint whisper of the breeze rustling branches. The patter of rainfall, or was it a brook? Everything was hazy and tangled. But the sleep ended when a hand clutched his shoulder and jerked him hard.

  “Annon!”

  He was confused, snapping out of a forgotten dream and realizing that sunlight came in streamers through a copse of thin yew trees and half-blinded him. The smell was different, not the heady scent of pine and thin mountain air. Now, it was a lowland smell, thick with the pungent smells of grasses and weeds and brush.

  “At last! Wake up, boy!”

  He jolted, recognizing the sound of his uncle’s voice. Twisting with a sudden desperateness, he whirled and beheld Tyrus kneeling over him. At first, he could not believe his own senses. His uncle, his face, his towering presence. Shock thundered inside him, and then he felt the first swells of anger.

  “The sleep affects everyone differently. Your friends may awaken soon or not, but I needed to rouse you first.” He gripped Annon’s shoulder with a strong hand, clenching his tunic. “I may not have much time before the Arch-Rike’s minion finds me again. Give me the blade you snatched from Drosta’s lair. This entire area reeks of it, and the spirits are frightened of you. The blade Iddawc.”

  Annon struggled to sit up, but his uncle’s hand kept him down. He was exceptionally strong. His fist was tighter than knots.

  “What errand did you send us on, Uncle?” he asked, feeling every emotion fire up in hostility. “A treasure to buy Hettie’s freedom? Was that even your intent?”

  Tyrus rifled through Annon’s cloak with his other hand and discovered the blade pouch fastened to his belt. He began untying the knot and Annon grabbed at his hands, trying to stop him. It was like trying to bend iron bars.

  “I have precious little time to meddle with you,” Tyrus warned with disapproval. “The one who hunts me would just as soon kill you with his fingers as waste a spare moment wrestling you. Come, boy! Stop fighting me. You are not wise or powerful enough to handle this blade.”

  “And you are?” Annon seethed, unsuccessful at stopping his uncle’s fingers from snapping the cords of the pouch and claiming the weapon.

  Tyrus rose, towering over the younger man like a boulder. It was then that Annon noticed the soot stains, the tattered hem of his uncle’s cloak. The gash in his sleeve. His face was weather burned.

  His uncle snorted. “I know far too much about this blade to ever be its master. It has no master but itself. But it will serve a useful purpose in the Scourgelands. I bid you farewell, nephew. I will likely be dead before we cross paths again. Forgive me for being an unfit uncle if you can. Good-bye.”

  Annon surged to his feet, anger exploding in his heart. He shook with rage, his fingers tingling with unspent flames. Why was it that his uncle made him lose himself like this? After all they had been through, he wanted an explanation. He wanted the truth. To be dismissed as an errand boy galled him. “That is all? You abandon us here? Wherever here is?”

  There was a grim look in Tyrus’s eye. “Abandon you? It is what I am good at, after all. I come and I go when it suits me. You can have no faith in me. You do not trust me. Believe me, nephew, there is a murderer no doubt flying the aether as we speak to kill me. When he arrives, I must be gone or he may take his vengeance out on you. For your own safety, I must leave you.”

  “But why?” Annon demanded. “Have I not earned at least that? Why did you send us there? Why did you deceive us? What about Hettie’s freedom?”

  Tyrus arched an eyebrow. He took a step forward, his gaze menacing. “Think, boy! Use those scraps of brains. I turn the question back on you. Why did you not insist on knowing more? Why were you satisfied to go knowing so very little? Why did you assume I would tell you all when you took no thought to even ask me?” He pointed to the woods, at nothing. “Well? Why did you not ask?”

  Annon gritted his teeth together, but he would not back down. He stepped closer. “Because I did not think you would tell me, Uncle.”

  “A fair statement. A fool’s answer, though. If you only knew the danger…the real danger that just being near me presents to you.” He swallowed a muttering oath. “Let me be candid with you, Annon. I have nothing left to lose. I have lost all except my wits and my will. I believe the Scourgelands is the source of the changing Plague which has decimated the races. It comes in different disguises, but it is still the same Plague. The answer to stopping it is hidden within the Scourgelands. You will not understand this, but I will say it anyway. Some treachery happened long ago. A promise made by a Paracelsus, I believe, but none have ever recorded the memory of what the affront was. I have spent my life piecing together all the clues. I know how to end the Plague. And the Arch-Rike of Kenatos will stop at nothing to prevent me from doing so.”

  His eyes blazed. “We have different opinions, he and I. Were I to stop the Plague, he would lose all his power and authority. The last time I attempted this was before you were born. Everyone who went with me into the Scourgelands died. So you see, my young friend, my dear nephew, that you are far better off never having known me or what I am going to do. For your sakes, I bid you both farewell.”

  “Uncle.”

  It was Hettie. She had risen where she had lain, pretending to be asleep. Her eyes were dark with concern. Her arms were folded defiantly across her chest. “How can we help you?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You are fledglings. All of you. The last group I brought into the Scourgelands were tested and trained. They were the best of their generation. They perished in the nightmares that roam inside.”

  “Answer my question, Uncle,” Hettie demanded.

  Annon struggled to control his anger. He did not want to help his uncle. He wanted to lash out at him with hateful words and erase the memory of him from his mind. But he could not. Tyrus’s words buzzed inside his head like a hive of angry bees. He remembered Reeder’s warning about the Scourgelands. He could almost imagine his friend’s worried expression.

  Annon’s voice was raw. “Do you seek us to join you?”

  Tyrus shook his head angrily. “Yours was a good question, Hettie. They typically are. Annon, you are too concerned about trying to understand my motives. You miss something obvious. If I am capable of deceiving the Rikes of Kenatos and their beetle-black rings, then I can surely dupe someone as foolish as you. Annon, you will never understand my motives until you understand me. You will not understand me until you understand what motivates me. And you will not understand that without seeking to do my will. In other words, you must trust me. Remember, I told you that in my tower.”

  “Did Kiranrao speak the truth?” Hettie asked. “Was there an explosion?”

  Tyrus nodded. “One of my latest projects for the Arch-Rike was inventing ways of releasing power in a blast. They are volatile spirits and they are bound for one reason and one purpose. You saw them on my desk when you both visited me. They were designed to help the masons of Stonehollow crack boulders. I am sure the Arch-Rike plans to use them to destroy castle walls. When he sent his man to kill me, I used a device I made to travel far away and trigg
ered the room to explode, hoping it would kill him. It did not, but it destroyed my tower. I am still being hunted.”

  Annon stared at him. “Did my arrival to the city cause this?”

  Tyrus smiled grimly. “Yes, but you did it unwittingly. I protected you both the best I could.”

  “I have no love of Kenatos or the Arch-Rike,” Hettie said. “How can I help?”

  “I applaud your question. Was it sincerely given?”

  She nodded, arms folded. Her shoulders seemed to scrunch, as if she were tightening into knots inside, awaiting a blow.

  “There is a prince in Silvandom. A Vaettir-lord named Prince Aransetis. He has agreed to journey with me into the Scourgelands. There was something he had commissioned from me that will help him survive. I did not have time to retrieve it before the explosion in my tower. You must go to Kenatos and find it. Bring it to Prince Aran. That is how you can help me.”

  “What is it?” Hettie asked.

  “A small leather pouch. A sturdy pouch. There are three jewels inside. They are uncut stones, not polished gems. Raw stones. There are spirits trapped in each one, bound to serve the Vaettir. Only a Vaettir can handle them and use them.”

  Hettie swallowed. “Where is the bag?”

  Tyrus smiled grimly. “I wish that I knew. It was in my study when it exploded. It would not have been destroyed; the magic is too powerful, and those gems were fashioned inside a volcano. It may be in the rubble. I do not know. But if you could find the stones and bring them to Silvandom, that would help me.”

  Annon glanced and noticed that Paedrin was standing next to Hettie, watching them carefully. “What of me, Tyrus? Are you still in need of my service?”

  Tyrus shook his head. “A Bhikhu is always very useful. But you would need to seek your master’s approval to serve me further. Your obligation to me is fulfilled. I am an outlaw now in Kenatos. You are sworn to uphold its laws.”

  Paedrin nodded. He was silent for a moment. “Is that how Aboujaoude died? In the Scourgelands? He was a very famous Bhikhu, but he died before I was born.”