Fireblood

by Jeff Wheeler

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Jeff Wheeler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  Cover illustration by Eamon O’Donoghue

  ISBN-13: 9781612187204

  ISBN-10: 161218720X

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012944549

  To David Pomerico,

  Dream Fulfiller

  Whispers from Mirrowen

  Fireblood

  Legends of Muirwood

  The Wretched of Muirwood

  The Blight of Muirwood

  The Scourge of Muirwood

  Landmoor Series

  Landmoor

  Silverkin

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  GLOSSARY

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The final embers of sunlight cooled against the pale sky, coloring the clouds orange and purple. From the north, massive thunderheads loomed—seemingly tranquil yet swollen and ribbed. It would rain within the hour. A humid breeze rustled the nest of brittle oak leaves, crackling and snapping as the invisible rush shook the branches and a hail of dead leaves came down, swirling like ashy flakes of snow. A penetrating bark reported somewhere in the distance within the maze of trees, and then the bark turned into a keening howl. The howling was joined by short fits of barking. Tyrus heard the sounds, tightened his grip on his cloak, and started to run again. If the storm did not break soon, he knew he was going to die.

  Tyrus of Kenatos was not a small man. He was hardy and younger than the streaks of gray at the edge of his amber beard implied. Drenched with sweat, shivering with fever, and bleeding from claw gashes all over his body, he moved as quickly as he could manage without stumbling. In all likelihood, he was delirious, and he recognized the possibility that he was walking back toward the creatures that hunted him instead of away from them. Every twisted, stunted oak looked the same, covered with moss and black with disease. Mushroom spores abounded instead of grass or wytherweeds. Were they also affecting his mind? He had not dared to eat one, despite his ravenous hunger. The acorns would be poison as well. Everything in the Scourgelands was poisoned.

  Tyrus was a fool. He had believed he was strong enough, wise enough, skilled enough to face the horrors past the northern borders and not only survive, but triumph. He had convinced himself—and others—that it was their destiny to destroy the murderous Plague that ravaged the lands every generation. How many cities had fallen victim to them? How many centuries had passed where once, twice, four times the culling had happened, dwindling the population of the races down to the few hunkering within fortresses and strongholds? It was his dream to end it at last, to banish the cursed Plague and stamp out its source, both root and branch, and end the vicious cycle of death and stagnation. His companions had trusted him. They had believed in his goal and shared in his vision. And with him, they had entered the Scourgelands only to find themselves caught in a maze of horrors, hunted and stalked and killed one by one. They had not even breached the inner core of the maze of trees. Nor had they seen the face of the enemy who commanded its precincts. But it had seen them, and its fury was incalculable.

  The fetid air scorched Tyrus’s lungs as he ran. He was exhausted. It had been days since he had slept, days since he had tried to wander free of the maze of oak trees. South was impossible. East was impossible. West was impossible. Somehow, he kept getting turned around, and found himself moving closer to the inner core of the maze, instead of fleeing it. It did not matter how hard he tried to focus or concentrate. The woods had a way of tricking him, sending him back the way he had come. Back toward the death that hunted him in a thousand forms. Clenching his teeth, he shoved through the woods, struggling to stay ahead of the creatures hunting him. His strength faded. Madness threatened him. He almost welcomed it.

  In his mind, he thought of his study, high within the Paracelsus Tower in Kenatos. A cup of honeyed tea in his hand, soothing a sore throat or warming him before bed. There were books to read—so many books to read. Books written by the Vaettir on plants and spirit-life. There were obscure tomes by the Cruithne on the proper construction of furnaces or the gemcraft that would trap a spirit and bind it to obey for ten years. Even more obscure, the writings of the Preachán on lurid trading or the gossip of kings and thrones in distant lands—of queens and killers and the diplomacy of poison. But his favorite works were the writings of a hundred generations of Paracelsus, each more cryptic and awe inspiring than the last. Another twenty-five years and he would still not have read them all, but he desperately wanted to. It was that desperation, in the end, that kept him moving, preventing him from collapsing in gibbering fear and accepting his approaching death.

  Tyrus of Kenatos—one of the wise ones of the city. A Paracelsus without peer. He wanted to laugh with bitterness. He had matched his mind against the best the island city had produced and had never found anyone who could win an argument with him save the Arch-Rike. And yet Tyrus could say he had never lost an argument either. He had persuaded the Arch-Rike to let him go. It was almost worth accepting death instead of admitting how wrong he had been to venture into the Scourgelands. How foolish he had been. How unprepared he was to face the wicked beings permeating the maze of oak trees known as the Scourgelands. There was blood on his hands. So much blood. They had trusted him and he had failed them.

  A snap from the side alerted him to danger. Already he started to summon power to defend himself. The fear was so sudden that he nearly abandoned the words that would tame it. He realized with horror how close he had been to unleashing it untamed—an act that would have resulted in irrevocable madness. Had not the Paracelsus writings warned of it? Discipline. Self-discipline. It was the only way to stay sane.

  Tyrus swung his fist around and then saw her. It was Merinda. The Druidecht was alive?

  “Tyrus?” she gasped. Her face was white, her robes soaked in blood. Dead leaves were tangled in her hair. Her left arm pressed against her side at an awkward angle, likely broken.

  “Merinda,” he said in amazement, stopping. “Are you…are you alone?”

  She nodded in exhaustion, her eyes fluttering.

  “Are you really Merinda Druidecht?” he demanded, studying her face. He could not trust anything right now, least of all his senses. The black ring on his finger burned with heat.

  “I am,” she answered and the ring throbbed. “Who
did you think I was? Your sister?”

  There was pain at the word. He clenched his teeth, trying to control it. “She died long ago, Merinda. Long ago. Do you know where you are?”

  Merinda nodded, approaching. She doubled over in pain. “I am weak, Tyrus. But I know how to escape. I know the way out. But they hunt me. They are coming again. I lack the strength.”

  “Where is Aboujaoude?” Tyrus asked. “He would not have left your side unless…” He choked, unable to say it. Aboujaoude was a Bhikhu. The most talented Bhikhu in a generation, a natural with any weapon or with his hands and feet alone. Surely he would have survived the Scourgelands. Tyrus had assumed Merinda would have fallen first.

  “Dead,” Merinda said flatly. “I am tired, Tyrus. So tired. Will you…will you walk with me a ways?”

  “I am hunted as well, Merinda,” he said, pained by her plea. If he slowed for her, they would both die. He had to live. He had to live to describe what they had found. Perhaps someday, another Paracelsus would read the words and see something that he had not seen. The claw wounds would heal, though they were poisoned. He knew the cures for poisons. The guilt would possibly drive him mad. Yet one of them had to survive. One had to warn the Arch-Rike of the next Plague that was coming.

  “I know, Tyrus. I can help you if you help me. I know the way out. I can help you escape. But you must promise me. You must help me.”

  He wanted to laugh, his mind giddy with dread. A way out? “Where, Merinda?” Tyrus asked, listening for the sound of their pursuers. The howling had stopped. That was not good. It meant they were still on the trail, trying to box them in. They would attack from three sides at once. “What is the way?” Tyrus seethed, grabbing her shoulder and shaking her.

  Merinda looked back at the woods, her face twisted with grief. “They come.”

  “Tell me!”

  “You must not look,” she said. Her voice came as a whisper. “They live in the trees. Inside them, Tyrus. Inside these sick trees. You see their faces and they make you forget. You must not look at them, Tyrus. Walk south. Look at the ground. Do not look at the trees. The faces—you will see them. And then you will forget. They rule these woods. The faces. So beautiful. So twisted. They hate us, Tyrus. Especially our blood. Yet they will help us. Only us. Please…I have shown you the way out. It is the way of the Druidecht. It is our lore. You would not know of it. Do not write it, Tyrus. There are secrets which cannot be written. Please…you must save me. You must…”

  His heart pained him. He tried not to feel it or let it influence him. “I cannot save you, Merinda. I may not even be able save myself. If I stay with you, they will reach us, and I cannot protect you from them. They are without reason. They hunt and they kill. Even fire barely hurts them.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding like a puppet. “I will stop them. I will unleash all of the magic. I will save you. I will sacrifice my mind. But you must save me.”

  “There is no way to cure the madness!” Tyrus hissed, trembling with fury. “I could not save Missy and I cannot save you from it. Have you unleashed it already? Are you already lost, Merinda? Say it!”

  “No,” she answered, and the ring on his finger pulsed with life again. “No, not yet. But I will. I will to save you. You must…in return…save me. Not my mind, Tyrus. Not for long. You must save my body. I must live…longer.”

  His heart skipped when he realized what she meant, and the pangs of guilt hit deeper. “No…Merinda…is it true? I had seen you and Aboujaoude look at each other, but never more than that. I never suspected…”

  She reached and clutched his tunic front with her free hand, the one that was not angled crookedly against her side. “We were careful that no one knew. We were wed in Kenatos by the Arch-Rike in secret. We did not want anyone to know, least of all you. I am with child,” she whispered. “His child. He sacrificed himself that I might escape. Now the madness will take me so that you will escape. But you must save me, Tyrus. Not for my sake, but for the child’s sake. There are so few of us, and our blood is sacred. It will save many during the Plague that comes. The Plague that we have caused by coming here. This forsaken land. This wilderness of our wrongs. Save my child, Tyrus.”

  He saw the shapes emerge from the woods, coming from three sides at once. They were swift as shadows, slinking in the fading light, eyes luminous and full of hate. They were enormous, yet the bulk deceived. They were supple and graceful, beings from another realm of existence, let loose to guard and destroy. They were colorful, yet of no color, like glass.

  Tyrus felt the first drops of rain on his face and the wind kicked up another cascade of brittle leaves. The leaves would burn. The entire grove would burn.

  Merinda turned and faced the nightmares caging them. Her eyes were flat, devoid of emotion. “If a boy, name him Annon. If a girl, name her Hettie. That was my mother’s name.”

  In his mind, Tyrus repeated the words to tame his magic. He would try to destroy them alone, but he was too late. Merinda raised her good arm and flames gushed from her fingers, sweeping the attackers with a plume of heat that turned them into white ash.

  It was not enough. A new wave of attackers bounded in from behind them. Tyrus had just enough time to turn and send flames hurtling into them. He brought down three before the fourth launched at him and sent him toppling backward. Claws raked down his lips and chin, furiously and ferociously trying to rip out his throat. He felt its hind claws on his bloodied legs and he twisted reflexively. Its teeth snapped near his ear. He could feel its panting breath, its saliva spattering on his neck. Then suddenly he was bathed in flames, and the being vanished with the heat. Merinda stood over him, her crooked arm held out, sending more fire into the new attackers. Smoke trailed from his cloak.

  Tyrus saw her eyes. They were gleeful.

  “Stop!” he shouted at her. “Merinda, stop!”

  She let the flames out like a flood, engulfing the area in blazing sheets, catching another group as it tried to flank her. Then she smiled, experiencing a euphoria so powerful that it stole everything from her.

  Tyrus saw another pack lunging at her from behind. Pulling himself up to one knee, he straightened his arms and sent a whirlwind of fire at them, though more focused and controlled. There were so many! One dodged his attempt to destroy it and vaulted at Merinda. It struck her from behind, smashing her to the charred earth. It raised a terrible paw and Tyrus tackled it, grabbing its outstretched limb and sending flames through it all in one burst. He felt his hold on sanity slipping. He wanted to free the magic completely, to create a forest blaze so massive that nothing but he and Merinda would be safe to walk in it. He nearly gave into the craving.

  Merinda was back on her feet again, her face twisted with hatred and rage. Another pack loomed in, circling them from all sides, more cautious this time, but no less determined. She did not hesitate. Her jaw looked swollen. It was probably broken. Her eyes focused and then the very trees around them exploded with flames, sending shards of bark and flaming wood into their midst.

  Tyrus had never seen the fireblood unleashed so fully, not even when his sister had done it.

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely. It was too late for Merinda.

  The storm broke at last, flooding the trees and woods in a deluge. The rains would stop the burning eventually. Tyrus led the Druidecht girl through the maze, eyes down on the dirt. He could sense the beings in the trees now, he could feel them grabbing at his mind, commanding him to look at them. He walked feverishly, pulling Merinda after him. She sang softly to herself, a lullaby broken with intermittent giggles.

  In the end, it was the rain that saved Tyrus’s life. It was not something he had planned on or accounted for in his thinking. It was a random bit of luck, a vagary that made the difference between life and death. It was the rain that disguised his trail just long enough for the two of them to slip away from the maze of oak trees, a maze that had murdered the twelve who had entered it with him.

  “There is a saying among t
he Druidecht order: Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe. They harbor the peculiar notion that our world co-exists with another realm, a realm of spirit which they call Mirrowen. The denizens of Mirrowen cannot be seen with mortal eyes and often play pranks on us. They are firm in this belief, often wearing a token of their discipleship—called a talisman—around their necks. The world beyond the walls of Kenatos is full of strange and peculiar traditions. I do not pass judgment on them. My intent is merely to describe them fully and let my readers judge for themselves. I would add, however, that the Druidecht are known to ingest copious quantities of mushrooms.”

  – Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  It could be said, and rightly so, that Annon was a Druidecht. It could also be said that he preferred the company of raccoons, wrens, and the millions of unseen spirits roaming the woods to any conversation with people. He had spent most of his eighteen years wandering the vast woods of the Kingdom of Wayland, though on occasion he had journeyed as far west as the woods bordering Stonehollow. The life suited him perfectly. He had never been comfortable in thronging crowds or rude cities. The secluded hamlets and villages of Wayland fit his reclusive personality. Being a Druidecht, he was offered respect from nearly anyone he met. He had no home or dwelling place, carrying all his possessions in a large pack slung around his shoulders, but he was never deprived of shelter when he needed it.

  A Druidecht was always welcome in a hut, no matter how small, and he was given the best portion of meat or a heaping bowl of vegetables and broth. He was revered because of his knowledge of the world and its many unseen inhabitants. The knowledge of the Druidecht was secret and only passed along from one to another, without books or written words, and Annon hungered to learn it all. He secretly hoped that by doing so, he would finally learn to control his anger.

  Anger was a part of his life, like his walking staff, the dagger in the sheath at his belt, and his hands. Especially his hands. It was anger that made them tingle with heat. He had much to be angry about. The King of Wayland was a fool, and his reckless laws endangered the woodlands, threatening the creatures that lived there—secretly, dangerously. Lumber was needed to build his cities. Chalk from hills and sand from the rivers were removed, damaging the spirits that hid there. The creatures retaliated, of course, causing bizarre accidents amidst the workers. Some of the accidents were fatal. Deliberately so. The Waylanders were a superstitious people, yet they never learned to read the mood of the spirits in the shift of the winds. They never seemed to know when they had gone too far.