Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Annon felt his heart constrict and stopped, holding up his hand as a warning. He did not know how many were in pursuit, but he got the sense from the bird-spirit that it was a sizable host. He looked ahead, seeing nothing but unending plains with sharp brown rocks and tumbleweeds. Pausing, he stopped and inhaled the air, tasting the dirt on his tongue. He could hear the crunch of boots as the rest of Tyrus’s band approached him.

  It was hardly past noon and the Boeotians had found them already.

  “As iron is eaten away by rust, so the envious are consumed by their own passion. I heard it said once, and this by a wealthy man in Kenatos, that what he needed most was to love and to be loved. Happily he wrapped those painful bonds around himself, and, sure enough, he would be lashed with the red-hot pokers of jealousy, by suspicions and by fear, by bursts of anger and quarrels. Some fools cannot discern the difference between love and jealousy.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

  IV

  Studying emotions at a drab and colorless monastery, with all its cracks in the cobbles and moldering stone walls, had not truly prepared Paedrin for the rest of his life. He had been taught by Master Shivu that emotions could be controlled, directed, and would ultimately provide a calm assurance and peace that would persevere until the stubble of black hair on the dome of his head had frosted over. Always Master Shivu had a quirk of a smile on his face as he waggled his fingers at his young pupils, warning them not to be caught in the snares of the heart. Men murdered for love. Fools bargained with Preachán for tastes of it.

  But there was something about seeing Hettie walking side by side with Kiranrao that made Paedrin forget all of Shivu’s cautions.

  The young Bhikhu sighed deeply, wrestling against his surging feelings. How could he describe it? The tranquility Master Shivu promised was still there, woven link by link like the chain he had fastened to his wrist and now used as a weapon—a series of conscious choices that had purified his body and his mind and allowed him to perform feats of great discipline and grace. Tranquility was as subtle and sweet as a juicy grape. But at the same time, he experienced the red-hot burning on his tongue brought by a mouthful of fiery peppers—hate, jealousy, revenge, contempt. These were powerful emotions, and their presence nearly drowned out the calmer ones completely. He realized that it was difficult to be patient and wise when his mouth was blistering with unspoken insults.

  What galled Paedrin even more was that Tyrus would not address his concerns or explain his reasons for allowing Kiranrao to join the expedition. It was like bringing along a snake and trusting it not to bite you. Tyrus would offer no reason. He only said it would become very clear once they entered the Scourgelands.

  The walk through an area like Boeotia normally would have required his concentration, but with such vast open plains and rolling, scrub-packed hills, there was little that could advance on them unawares. No fearsome Boeotian warrior could possibly be squatting behind such stunted weeds or barren brush. Paedrin wanted to fight. He wanted to challenge Kiranrao right at that moment. He recognized his own tempestuousness, but recognition didn’t help him cope.

  Why did he care so much that Hettie seemed accepting of Kiranrao’s company? Was he, a Bhikhu, attempting to own her in his way? She was a Romani girl, stolen at birth by a midwife and raised to be sold every ten years starting at age eight. Paedrin had snapped off her earring in Kenatos, and she had become a disciple of the Bhikhu ways. But he also knew that she was a cunning liar. Conflicting memories of her bashed around inside him. He had grown to trust her at last, through all they had suffered together to reach the Shatalin monastery and claim the Sword of Winds. A shiver went through him at the memory of huddling close to her at a cliff face. She had nearly plummeted to her death that night and he had saved her. In return, she had saved him from the Kishion training yard.

  Yet Kiranrao was her old master. He who pays the piper calls the tune. Was Kiranrao calling the tune or was Tyrus? Was Hettie showing deference to Kiranrao so as not to provoke him? Would Paedrin fare better if he stopped provoking him too?

  The man is insufferable, he thought blackly. How would Shivu have handled him? Black thoughts scudded across his mind. It did not matter for Master Shivu was dead, killed by Romani poison.

  Annon stopped and the lack of motion caught Paedrin’s attention instantly. He shoved aside his teeming feelings with great effort and began searching the area for signs of a threat. The big cat was nestled by Annon’s leg, its tail lashing like a snake. Annon turned and began to hurry to Tyrus. Paedrin, not wanting to miss any of their conversation, reached the Paracelsus first.

  “What is it?” Tyrus asked Annon.

  “The spirits tell me we are hunted,” Annon answered in a low voice. Some of the others gathered around as well. “They will stay out of sight until after nightfall, but I fear we may be surrounded. Our progress is being tracked.”

  “From behind?”

  Annon nodded. “For now. Word is spreading about us. They may seek to box us in. Should we change direction?”

  Tyrus shook his head. “No, I don’t want them to realize we know of their plans. We can escape easily enough with the Tay al-Ard. Escaping is not my concern. I intend to face them.”

  “You do?” Annon asked, his face betraying his surprise.

  “I have trained for years to fight Boeotians,” Paedrin said, edging closer. “They are the principle enemies of Kenatos and have sought to destroy us since the founding.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Tyrus said impatiently. “They are a proud race. Honor motivates them, but not the form of it you might be thinking.”

  “Honor?” Phae asked, brushing a long strand of hair over her ear. “What do you mean?”

  Tyrus glanced at her and did not answer her question. “It is important that we learn how to fight as a group. It is crucial that we understand each other’s abilities. We will not molest the Boeotians if they leave us alone. But if their hunting party attacks us, they will be surprised.” Tyrus cocked his head a moment, pausing as the others approached. “They have a strange ritual among them. Their leaders are always the fiercest warriors and they constantly challenge each other for supremacy. When they come, Paedrin will challenge their leader.”

  A glow of excitement welled in Paedrin’s heart. That was exactly what he needed. “I would be honored.”

  The glow turned sour when he saw Tyrus’s smirk. “I’m confident in your abilities, Paedrin, but I mean to tell them that you are our lowliest fighter. It will send a message through their ranks and to their chieftains that we are not to be trifled with. They will test us before committing all of their force. We will pass their test.”

  It did not help Paedrin’s feelings that Hettie was smiling at Tyrus’s comment. She gave the Bhikhu a look, her expression revealing her unspoken words. Lowliest fighter?

  “Very well, Tyrus,” Paedrin replied with as much dignity as he could muster in such a moment. “But I have a ploy that I need to warn you all about. The Sword of Winds contains a potent magic. It cannot be drawn from its sheath without triggering the effect. This is what happens. The stone set in the pommel glows, and anyone who sees it will become blinded and suffer terrible pain. These effects do wear off after many hours, and the pain is not without benefit. In some way, the magic strips away the need to use your eyes at all. When it happened to me at the Shatalin temple, I was able to see just as well with my eyes shut. My other senses were amplified and I still feel those effects even now. If the leader succumbs to the magic, it will be a quick victory, for the magic is quite painful.”

  “Let me see it,” Tyrus said, holding out his hand. Paedrin swiveled the scabbard around from his sash and quickly untied it. He offered it to Tyrus, who examined the pommel and the stone embedded there.

  Annon drew closer. “There is a spirit trapped in the stone. I cannot hear it, but I can sense it.”

  “I
thought that as well,” Paedrin said, nodding.

  Tyrus bent close, looking at the design. “This blade was not forged by the Paracelsus. There are no binding runes. The ancient stone set in the pommel was part of the original design.” He adjusted his grip on the scabbard but did not attempt to draw the blade. The hilt was narrower than the types of guards made by the blacksmiths in Kenatos. The polish had long rubbed off and part of the hilt had tarnished.

  “What is it then?” Kiranrao asked curiously.

  “This is a Mirrowen blade,” Tyrus answered with a curt nod, handing it back to Paedrin. “It was a gift by the spirits to a Vaettir lord many centuries ago. It’s been handed down during the generations and was brought across the sea when the ships came, escaping the fate of the Vaettir homeland. The stone is a protection against the unworthy handling the powers of the blade. As you no doubt learned, it empowers someone to fly and will help in your natural abilities. This is important, Paedrin, because some of the creatures we’ll face, like the Calcatrix, attack from the air and if you look at them, you will turn to stone. This weapon was designed to help destroy such creatures.”

  “I cannot draw the blade from the sheath,” Paedrin said. “I can only use it in the scabbard until the master of the blade draws it. I’ve tried.” He looked at Hettie, for she was the one who had explained the properties to him.

  Tyrus turned and faced her.

  “It’s true,” Hettie said. “I learned in the temple that only one man can draw the blade. It’s fused solid otherwise. It must be given freely or taken from the one defeated in battle.”

  “Cruw Reon,” Tyrus answered. “The traitor of Shatalin.”

  “The man standing right next to you may be the one who can draw it,” Hettie finished, holding her hand toward Shion, the Quiet Kishion.

  Paedrin stared at him, saw the look of amused surprise flicker momentarily on his scarred face.

  “Is my name Cruw Reon, Tyrus?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “That cannot be,” Tyrus answered. “I learned of Cruw Reon from Master Shivu and he lived a generation ago. You cannot be him. But if the blade passes from master to master through defeat, you may have the right to unsheathe it. Draw the blade and we shall see.”

  “Or not,” Kiranrao suggested. “Especially if we all go blind.”

  Tyrus handed the scabbard to the Kishion, who studied its length as if it were some unnatural, disgusting thing. Phae watched him intently, her eyes drawn.

  “Unless you all have a deep fondness for ravaging pain,” Paedrin said dryly, “I would recommend shutting your eyes before he draws it.”

  They did, except for the Quiet Kishion and Paedrin himself. The Kishion stared at the weapon, some dark emotion crossing his face. Frustration? Worry? The man was always so silent. Had he discovered a way to tame his emotions? Perhaps he could teach Paedrin how.

  The two of them looked at each other a moment, the Kishion inquisitive.

  “It hurt worse than any pain I have ever experienced,” Paedrin offered calmly. “Even when you broke my arm. But the pain brought insights. It also brought new abilities I did not have before. Truly pain is a teacher. Perhaps the origin of that saying was Shatalin.”

  “Perhaps,” the Kishion answered. Gripping the pommel firmly, he stared at the scabbard, studying the markings on it. Most averted their faces, not wanting to be stung by the blade’s painful magic. Phae clutched her father’s arm, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  Gripping the scabbard tightly, the Kishion slid the blade free of its sheath in a fluid motion. It loosened without difficulty. The orb fastened to the hilt began to glow, making Paedrin wince in anticipation, but not painfully bright as it had before. He saw looks of fear on the faces of several of the women and Annon.

  Paedrin squinted and then relaxed. “You truly are the master of the blade. It did not blind as it did before.” The others looked up nervously, seeing the stone in the hilt glowing softly.

  “I have no memory of this blade or that name,” he announced coolly. “That part of me is lost until we find Poisonwell. The blade is yours, Paedrin. I give it to you freely.”

  Despite being a constant reminder that there was one man in the world that Paedrin could not defeat, he was starting to like the Kishion fellow.

  The attackers came at midnight with smoking torches.

  Tyrus’s small band was expecting them.

  The Boeotians had elected to swarm them from all sides, offering no way to escape a ring of death except through clashing weapons. Paedrin exulted in the anticipation of a duel with the leader and had practiced his forms well past sundown. He had his chain whip in one hand and the Sword of Winds in the other. Tyrus had positioned the companions around a campfire in a square formation. Paedrin stood in the middle of the square so that he would be the center of all eyes.

  The tromping sound of charging men erupted from all around them, making the earth tremble with the force of feet. Spears clashed with buckler shields like thunder cracks. Whoops and shrill cries came at them from all sides.

  Excitement thudded inside Paedrin’s heart, matching the quickening pulse. He was ready for this. He felt as if he were a bow flexed near to bursting. He was ready to launch an arrow.

  “Not yet,” he heard Tyrus murmur, allowing the Boeotians to surge closer. Paedrin’s lip tasted like salt.

  A streamer of blue fire arced into the air, rising high before exploding into a single pulse of white-hot flames. Crackles of energy sizzled in the sky, illuminating the area and revealing the rush of attackers closing in. A deafening boom followed the light flash and its echoes reverberated across every rock and boulder nearby. The Boeotians halted suddenly, shielding their eyes from the glare and the noise, their charge interrupted.

  “Now,” Tyrus said.

  Paedrin swallowed and then took in a breath of air to begin to rise, becoming the focal point for all eyes as they recovered from the flash. Tendrils of smoke and magic seethed in the air, fading slowly. He raised the Sword of Winds as if stabbing the sky with it and felt his rise accelerate.

  “Is there a man brave enough to face me?” he shouted defiantly. “I am Paedrin Bhikhu of Kenatos. You are sorry worms to be blinded so easily. Does a little light make you squirm? Who among you dares to face me? Where is your leader? I will kick him into the dirt and spit on him.”

  There was a roar of anger and rage at the insults. Using the sword’s magic, Paedrin swooped toward those coming from the northern side. “Well?” he shouted. “Who leads these quivering pups? Name yourself! I am Paedrin Bhikhu and I challenge you!”

  A single spear came at him from the darkness. He saw the huge man who threw it and jerked his shoulders so that the shaft sailed past him.

  Paedrin let out his breath and came crashing down to the ground, his face livid with rage. “Am I a sparrow to be pecked at? Are you the leader of these cowards?”

  The man was enormous with graying temples and a long, knotted beard. There was a torc around his neck and the veins standing out on his skin gave him a purplish cast.

  “I am Cunsilion Uchitel,” the giant-like man said gruffly. “I defy you, Bhikhu!”

  Paedrin had the Sword of Winds in his right hand, the chain rope in his left. He bowed, leaning forward, dropping into a low stance. “I am honored to be the one to shame you in front of your dogs. I serve Tyrus Paracelsus of Kenatos and am his lowliest servant. When I am finished with you, I will gladly defeat any else who dares to face my skill.”

  The man lumbered forward, large as a bear. His hidebound boots thudded in the packed earth, with little tendrils of things tied into his braided mustache and beard. Tattoos covered his left arm up to his shoulder and up past his neck, full of designs that offered the appearance of the bark of a tree. His eyes were full of fury and passion. Little flecks of spittle sprayed from his lips as he huffed.

  Paedrin felt his m
uscles soothe and relax. This was what he longed for.

  The brute of a man hefted another short spear and Paedrin readied for it. A huge axe was also strapped to his back.

  “I do not prick so easily,” Paedrin taunted.

  “We shall see,” Cunsilion Uchitel replied in a guttural tone. “Atu vast! Atu vast!”

  Then planting his lead foot as if he were about to split the world in half, the giant-man hurled the spear directly at Tyrus.

  Annon recognized the Boeotian words. He did not recall what they meant, but he knew they were the precursor of a vicious attack. He had heard those words spoken at Reeder’s death and he had used them himself when a pack of Boeotians had hunted them along the trek to Basilides. He watched the man loose the spear and saw it sail toward Tyrus before anyone could react. Anyone, except for the Cruithne Baylen. He stepped forward and shattered the spear with one of his broadswords. The fragments exploded and the Boeotians whooped and screamed and charged from all sides.

  Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

  The ancient Vaettir words sounded in his mind as Nizeera screamed in warning. He had already summoned the words previously but he wanted to make sure he kept control of them as Tyrus had warned. He saw the flames proceed from Hettie and Phae and Tyrus before loosing them himself. The sheet of flames expanded from their core, as if a large boulder had suddenly been heaved into a pond, sending out ripples in all directions at once. Annon felt his blood start to sing with the pleasure of the magic and knew it would be dangerous to play with the fire for very long. The scrub and brush exploded into yellow, setting the land alight with flames. Annon saw Paedrin rush the Boeotian leader, whipping the chain over his head as he charged. Hearing Nizeera growl, he saw a rush of Boeotians heading right for him.