by Jeff Wheeler
BY JEFF WHEELER
WHISPERS FROM MIRROWEN TRILOGY
Fireblood
Dryad-Born
Poisonwell
LEGENDS OF MUIRWOOD TRILOGY
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
LANDMOOR SERIES
Landmoor
Silverkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 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, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477827871
ISBN-10: 1477827870
Cover design by becker&mayer! Book Producers
Illustrated by Magali Villeneuve
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014953467
To Terry Brooks
CONTENTS
The Scourgelands
I
“Over the years, . . .
II
“Havenrook has fallen . . .
III
“As iron is . . .
IV
“There is something . . .
V
“Revenge is a . . .
VI
“We know little . . .
VII
“For what cannot . . .
VIII
“We have, surviving . . .
IX
“It is said . . .
X
“The war with . . .
XI
“It was said . . .
XII
“One of the . . .
XIII
“The scars of . . .
XIV
“Why is it . . .
XV
“Terror is only . . .
XVI
“The night has . . .
XVII
“We are thunderstruck . . .
XVIII
“There is a . . .
XIX
“There are rumors . . .
XX
“Fools learn from . . .
XXI
“We are betrayed. . . .
XXII
“We are reinforced . . .
XXIII
“I’m in shock . . .
XXIV
“Darkness falls across . . .
XXV
“My spirit echoes . . .
XXVI
“Will the dawn . . .
XXVII
“If you only . . .
XXVIII
“No one is . . .
XXIX
“These are the . . .
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
“I write these . . .
XXXVI
“The Arch-Rike’s temple . . .
XXXVII
“I have written . . .
XXXVIII
“Memory is the . . .
XXXIX
“When we walk . . .
XL
“We captured a . . .
XLI
“The Vaettir have . . .
XLII
“The greatest injury . . .
XLIII
“Be at peace . . .
XLIV
“I do not . . .
XLV
“Maybe the Vaettir . . .
XLVI
“The more I . . .
XLVII
AUTHOR’S NOTE
GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I
The snapping sound of a branch was Tyrus’s only warning.
He managed to sidestep as the creature hurtled past him, but its claws raked his arm as it passed, opening slits with its razor-tipped points and unleashing searing pain. The beast landed, coiled like a spring, and launched back at him again, its fangs snapping toward his throat. Tyrus managed to catch its thick ruff of fur and then channeled the fireblood into it. The blue flames made it shriek with pain before snuffing it out in a plume of ash. Pain shot through Tyrus’s arm down to his wrist, but he did not have time to dwell on it. Three more of the creatures were coming at him.
Tyrus’s mind was frozen in time, all things slowing to the syrupy texture of dreams, his senses as sharp as the claws of the beasts. The sound of battle raged all around him as the survivors fought against the onslaught that came like an avalanche. He could hear the whistle of blades, the spray of blood from fur, barks and whines, and the almost-giddy chuckle of men driven past the point of exhaustion.
He tried to dodge the next creature as it swiped at him savagely, misjudging the blow and feeling it score his leg. Another turned into ash from the fireblood and Tyrus knew his hold on sanity was starting to slip. With all his heart he wanted to unleash it fully, to blast the relentless demons into whatever oblivion awaited them. Control—he had to control his anger and desperation.
One of the catlike creatures landed on his back, knocking him off balance. Tyrus nearly fell from its weight, but managed—if barely—to keep upright. His knees knotted with pain as the weight drove on him. The cowl of his cloak was wrenched aside by sharp teeth as the creature prepared to sink its bite into his neck. Tyrus swiveled, blasting the third Weir full in the chest with the fireblood just as it launched at him. The flames guttered out as the creature slammed into him, knocking him backward. The interruption may have saved his life, for he landed on the creature still clinging to his back and it let out a hiss of pain and surprise. Glowing yellow eyes shining with madness loomed over Tyrus and he summoned the Vaettir words again.
Too late.
A swipe of the claw raked Tyrus’s face, slashing his lip and chin as he tried to jerk away from the blow. Pain and blood drowned him, and again he nearly lost his self-control. He throttled the beast by the throat and sent flames streaking down its body until it vanished.
With a jerk of his shoulder, Tyrus twisted away from the creature pinned beneath him, its limbs thrashing to free itself as well as to attack him. Tyrus pressed his weight against it, slamming its head into the crackling nest of desiccated leaves. He pounded on the creature’s head again and again, his fist glowing blue with the fireblood. A terrible fury rose inside of Tyrus’s soul. He felt his own teeth bared with hatred and wondered whether he would start biting the demon next.
The creature lay limp and still as Tyrus managed to stagger to his feet. Howls filled the air, coming from far away. Mopping his bleeding face on the back of his hand, Tyrus turned to see who was left, who had survived. The baying sound signaled retreat. They had experienced it before.
The catlike creatures loped into the woods, vanishing like quicksilver, their hide glittering with dusty frost that made them turn invisible when they were not attacking. Fear began to replace the fury. The demon-spirits were cunning and deadly. The Druidecht Merinda had called them Weir. It was from some lore she had been taught.
One by one the creatures slipped away, leaving the remnants of Kenatos to bleed.
Tyrus tried to still his breathing and subdue his mounting panic. Why had the
creatures run off? He could discern no pattern in their attack or retreat. They seemed to have no reason. Perhaps a more cunning intelligence controlled them?
He looked down at his hand and saw the smear of blood. His mouth and chin throbbed with pain, as did his leg and arm. He clutched the wound on his arm to try to stanch the bleeding and started to hobble, seeing who had survived.
There was Merinda, face ashen, her untamed red hair clotted with leaves. Her fingers still burned blue as she rocked back and forth, not sure if the reprieve would last. Her eyes were lucid. That was good. She was hunched forward protectively, elbows in. Sweat mixed with the mud on her cheek.
Standing just behind her was the Bhikhu. Tyrus was so grateful that Aboujaoude was there. The Vaettir-born Bhikhu were all dead. Nothing had prepared them for the ferocity of the attacks, and their instinct to preserve life had defeated their chances of survival. Aboujaoude was Aeduan, trained in the Bhikhu Temple in Kenatos. Street fighting was natural to him. Survival was an instinct he did not lack. He had shed his Bhikhu sensibilities after the first attack of the Weir. So far, their threatening time in the Scourgelands had revealed he was an efficient killer. As Tyrus panted, staring at the man, he realized the Arch-Rike would make Aboujaoude a Kishion when they returned.
If they returned.
The doubt’s whisper was so soft, he almost didn’t hear it. It made his knees quaver and nearly start clacking together. If was a terrible word. It was the hinges of a door leading to thoughts that, once contemplated, the mind could never abolish. He was never one prone to other men’s fears. In his heart, he had believed he could defeat the Scourgelands. Losing half of the party already had begun to fill his mind with the seeds of doubt.
Their Romani Finder was the first to die.
The three Vaettir Bhikhu from Silvandom. Dead.
The brutish Cruithne warrior named Glebbon was still alive, still as deadly as ever. He was a menace with sword or pike, shrugging off the Weir as if they were merely feral street cats. Tyrus was grateful he was still alive.
Then there was Declan Brin, the Preachán. He avoided combat when he could and was helpful to analyze the situation afterward, pointing out symmetries to the attack. Where was Declan? Tyrus looked around, not seeing him.
“Declan?” he called.
“Over here, Tyrus!”
That was Mathon’s voice, and it was hard-edged and frantic. Alarm swept inside of Tyrus. He turned and found Mathon kneeling over Declan’s body, fingers working deftly to try to save the Preachán’s life. Declan moaned and gurgled, his head thrashing one way and then the next. Mathon was a Rike and one of the best healers in the city. He was young looking, nearly the same age as Tyrus. He had short, dark hair, a slightly bulbous nose, and an expression that was perpetually sad, except that at the moment it was frantic with desperation.
“I’m working as fast as I can,” Mathon gibbered, “but he’s losing blood quickly.” He jerked loose his belt and then fastened it like a strap to the Preachán’s arm, twisting the leather viciously to try to stanch the bleeding. Declan groaned with pain, digging his fingers into the clutter of leaves.
“I’m losing him!” Mathon said, panting. He leaned close and listened to Declan’s breath. He cinched the strap tighter, causing another groan of pain from the injured man. Mathon was full of scrapes and scratches himself, his black cassock soaked with blood and sweat. His own wounds were untended.
“Tyrus?” Declan said with a quavering moan.
Tyrus dropped to his knees next to the man. “I’m here.”
Declan shuddered fitfully, his eyes opening wide but with a blank look, as if he couldn’t see. “There’s something you should know. The trees . . . I’ve been noticing that when . . . I’m seeing that . . . what I can’t say is that I don’t recall . . . or remember . . .”
“Declan, I don’t understand you,” Tyrus said, grinding his teeth. “What have you seen in the trees?”
“The trees,” Declan breathed. His head lolled and he looked at Tyrus, though his expression was still blank. “I can’t remember . . . the trees.”
“What trees?” Tyrus said, placing a calming hand on Declan’s shoulder.
Mathon pressed his mouth against his own forearm, shuddering with emotions as he watched his friend dying. Blood seeped from the arm, draining away the Preachán’s life.
“Declan,” Tyrus implored.
Mathon clenched his teeth and began working again, jamming a stick into the knot of belt and twisting it around, tightening the knot more. Declan let out a scream of pain and began thrashing.
“Hold him down,” Mathon ordered Tyrus.
Tyrus did, surprised at the wiry man’s sudden strength. It took more effort than he expected to pin him still, knowing the suffering he was causing to his friend.
Merinda wandered up. “Can I help?”
Mathon shook his head. “Not unless you can summon a Shain spirit.”
“There are no helpful spirits in this forsaken place,” Merinda said with despair. “We are at the mercy of the Scourgelands.”
“What mercy,” Mathon mumbled, torquing the stick more. The bleeding began to subside. He gazed at Tyrus deeply. “Nothing could have prepared us for this place. What little lore we got from Possidius was absolutely useless.”
“I’ll remember to tell him that,” Tyrus said darkly. “This is not a place for scholars.”
“This is not a place for the living,” Mathon said, scanning the trees surrounding them. “This place repels life.”
Howling started again. Tyrus looked up, experiencing the shiver all the way down to his toes.
“They are coming again,” Merinda said with dread. “We must go.”
Mathon hung his head. “I may have saved him . . . but for what? We won’t last another wave from those beasts. My healing orbs are all spent, Tyrus. They were spent the first day we arrived. I only have my hands and skein threads to make stitches. We were not prepared for this!”
Tyrus lifted himself from Declan’s body, realizing the man had probably fainted from the pain. His breath was so shallow it wouldn’t have rustled paper.
“If we stay here, we all die,” Aboujaoude said.
Tyrus stared down at Declan’s shrunken face. His eyelids quivered and then he blinked awake.
“Declan?” Tyrus said.
The Preachán let out a grunting breath. His teeth were clamped together. “Tyrus,” he hissed.
“What is it, my friend?” Tyrus leaned closer.
“Must . . . leave me. I cannot flee. I am . . . not going to survive this. You all go on.”
Merinda’s face flushed with sorrow.
Mathon shook his head angrily no.
“Logical . . . conclusion,” Declan said. “One dies. Five live. For now. Maybe none of us will live through this. Improve . . . the odds. Must . . . survive and warn. Must leave a record. The trees, Tyrus. The trees aren’t dead.”
“What does that even mean?” Mathon said, wiping tears from his eyes. “For pity’s sake, you’ve never made sense to me, Declan!”
“Tyrus,” Aboujaoude warned. Glebbon gathered around as well, his face smeared with blood.
Staring down into the fading eyes of his friend, Tyrus knew that what Declan had said was true. But it did not make the truth any easier to accept.
“I did what I could,” Mathon said, wiping his face. “This is impossible. How could we have known what we would face? Birds that turn you into stone if you look at them? They nest in these woods. The Weir. Or those scorpion beetles. Oogh, how I hate those. The poisons in this place. Everything is poison here. No food to eat. No clean water.”
“We still have provisions,” Tyrus said. “We can make it two more days. We are getting closer. The attacks come more swiftly because we are nearing the center.”
The Cruithne Glebbon chuckled darkly, his
voice echoing like a deep kettle. “We’ve poked a stick into a living hive. We are nowhere near the honeycomb. These are just the outer defenses. They are swarming us, Tyrus. The next wave comes.”
“A bee swarm,” Mathon said, nodding. “Good analogy. I’m feeling the stings. What do we do, Tyrus?”
Tyrus saw that they were all looking at him. Every one of them had trusted their lives into his hands. The Arch-Rike had warned him that it was folly. Possidius the Archivist of Kenatos had said they would likely all perish. The lack of information about a threat did not lessen its reality. Only scraps of knowledge existed about the Scourgelands. Those scraps had been carefully and methodically collected by the Archivist over a period of years, if not decades. Small little scraps. Little hints. Danger and threats masked in a fog of history that was too impenetrable, a fog dating further back than the founding of Kenatos itself.
The city of Kenatos had been founded to survive the Plague so that each race and each culture might endure despite the ravaging diseases that afflicted the world. Yes, Tyrus had gleaned everything he could from those scraps and tales that Possidius collected.
But Tyrus never shared his own knowledge with others. He hoarded his secrets like a miser hoards coins. He did not tell Possidius that he knew something the older man did not, that he had learned it while living in Silvandom as a young man when the Plague had struck previously and the gates of Kenatos had locked Tyrus out.
There was another source, a book that had never been copied into the Archives of Kenatos. It was a book he had found in the vast library of the royal house of Silvandom. On an obscure page, written in the Vaettir tongue, was a single word, scrawled onto the margin. It was an ancient word. It was a word that bore no direct translation. Tyrus had fussed over that word for a long time before finally giving it a name in his own Aeduan language.
Poisonwell.
It was a defense, a barrier—a locked gate deep in a cave that barred the only way into Mirrowen that mortals could travel. A shaft that connected both worlds. The umbilical cord of the worlds. How to summarize those meanings in a single word? Tyrus had stared at the page for days, thinking thoughts so deep that he desired neither food nor drink. He was just a young man, of course. And he had stumbled upon a great secret that seemed to shout in his ear. Poisonwell was the lost gate to Mirrowen, a land beyond the grasp of death. There was a way to get there, to be free from death after all. Poisonwell was not just the cause of the Plague. It was also the cure.
