Poisonwell (Whispers from Mirrowen Book 3)

by Jeff Wheeler

  “You won’t . . . trick me!” Tyrus snarled, his body contorting into an unnatural position. He hunched over, as if experiencing horrible pain. His legs seemed rooted to the spot and one arm was tucked tight against his body, as if guarding a deep wound.

  “It is not a trick,” Paedrin said, changing angles, using the Uddhava to be unpredictable. “Tyrus, please! You are sick. Let me help you. Where’s Hettie?”

  “She’s dead. They’re all dead. I couldn’t stand alone against the entire world. I bore it all, but I’m dying.” He coughed and sagged to one knee, bending over and vomiting black bile. He struggled to breathe, choking.

  Paedrin’s heart wrung with emotions. It was like watching Shivu die. “No, Tyrus! They’re alive. Phae is alive! We must wait for them here. They will come.”

  “No . . . one . . . is . . . coming,” Tyrus gurgled.

  “Trust me!” Paedrin pleaded. He needed to get close. If he could strike fast and hard, he could stun Tyrus and knock him unconscious. He came around from behind.

  “Too late,” Tyrus moaned, shaking his head. Dribbles of spittle came from his mouth.

  Paedrin saw his neck turn, saw the cunning in Tyrus’s eyes. The hands shot out like serpents, the illusion of weakness shattered by the surge of madness. Blue flames exploded around Paedrin, smothering him, searing his skin. He had seen what happened to a person struck by them before. Ash.

  Yet the flames did not burn him.

  “Tyrus!” Hettie yelled. Paedrin heard her voice, saw her appear behind Tyrus on the other side, her body crouched, her fingers burning blue as she tamed the fire and prevented it from engulfing Paedrin. It was everything she could do to absorb the fatal blast herself, drawing Tyrus’s fireblood with her own. Her face twisted with anguish.

  “Now, Baylen!” she snapped.

  Then the Cruithne was there, behind Tyrus and wrapping him in his huge arms, pinning his arms to his sides and jerking him away from Paedrin. The flames guttered out momentarily and Tyrus bucked and twisted. Even the Cruithne could barely contain him and Paedrin watched Baylen’s hold slipping.

  Hettie ran up, her face wrinkled with anguish. “Uncle, stop! I have the cure for monkshood. Baylen, hold him still!”

  “No!” Tyrus shrieked. “You’ll poison me!” He was desperate, frantic, his eyes blazing with terror.

  “He’s stronger than he looks,” Baylen grunted, dodging his head aside as Tyrus’s whipped back to crush his nose. Baylen shifted his hold to a Bhikhu grip, wrapping his forearm around Tyrus’s neck, blocking off his air. The Paracelsus slammed into Baylen’s ribs, clawed at his face with his nails. Blood streamed from a cut on Baylen’s cheek, but he leaned forward, overpowering Tyrus with his pure weight. Both men wrestled viciously.

  Paedrin saw several soldiers watching them from behind the shelter of stones, their faces frozen with terror. None of them tried to interrupt the scene. They were frightened out of their wits, leaderless—shattered.

  Tyrus was choking, but he was still fighting. Baylen’s face scrunched with determination, his broad shoulders flexing as he forced Tyrus’s face into the shattered cobbles.

  “Now,” Baylen grunted, blood dribbling off his chin.

  Tyrus’s head was forced back, his throat exposed.

  He looked at Hettie in wild terror. “Kill me,” he croaked. “Please! Just kill me!”

  Hettie knelt by him, her eyes wet with tears. She shook her head fiercely. “You didn’t kill my mother. You saved her life. You did everything you could.” She cupped his sweating face with her hand. “You gave everything, Uncle. I won’t let you die.”

  She took her water flask and pressed it to his mouth. He spat it back at her, swearing violently, choking with rage and helplessness. Baylen torqued Tyrus’s arm viciously and his head arched back, mouth wide in a soundless scream. Hettie poured more of the liquid from the flask into his mouth and then Baylen released the chokehold and clamped his hand on Tyrus’s mouth. Paedrin crouched nearby, his heart breaking with pity.

  The three knelt by Tyrus as he lay panting, chest heaving. He started to weep, great choking sobs that split the air like thunder. He lay crumpled and defeated, unable to move, unable to fight, unable to rage. He sobbed, the sound a hymn of mourning and desolation so fitting for the Scourgelands.

  Paedrin squatted nearby, wiping tears from his own eyes, watching the mighty Paracelsus with overpowering pity.

  Hettie raised Tyrus’s head, resting it on her lap, and she stroked his hair, whistling softly. Baylen sat nearby, struggling to regain his own strength from the contest. He wiped a smear of blood from his chin, shaking his head sadly.

  Hettie cooed softly, bending low. “I won’t leave you,” she whispered to him. “I won’t abandon you.”

  “To your father,” the Seneschal said. His magic enveloped her and Shion and they rose with his inhaled breath up the chasm of broken rock to the top of the plateau. As they emerged from the crags of shattered stone, Phae watched the whorl of stormy clouds dispersing, exposing streaks of stabbing sunlight. She blinked, covering her eyes with her hand for a moment. As she looked, she saw her father sprawled on the ground, with Hettie, Paedrin, and Baylen crouching near him. He lifted his head as she approached him, her heart shuddering with relief at seeing them all alive.

  “Phae?” Tyrus said hoarsely, his eyes clear and focused.

  “He’s mad,” Hettie said forlornly, her eyes streaked with tears.

  Tyrus pulled himself up slowly, his muscles trembling with extreme exhaustion. “No, my thoughts are clearing.” He shuddered, trying to stand, but he was too weak to manage it. He shook his head, blinking rapidly.

  “Yes, you are, Uncle,” Hettie said. “You used the fireblood too much. You were raging a moment ago.”

  “I was,” Tyrus said, nodding emphatically. His eyes were reflective, calm. “My thoughts are clearing like those storm clouds. Phae? Is that you? Shion?”

  Phae rushed forward and sank down on her knees, drawing Tyrus into her arms. “The madness is banished,” she announced to everyone, her heart throbbing with joy. “The curse of the fireblood is no more. The Plague has ended. Father, it is over. You triumphed!” She cupped his cheek tenderly. “You were right. You did not know all of what happened in the past, but you figured out so much on your own. You’ve been hearing the whispers from Mirrowen all along. They brought you here. They brought you here to heal the land.”

  She felt wetness on his back and when she pulled her hand back saw the drops of blood sticking to her fingers. His face was pale, his strength fading with each breath. His body was full of gashes and wounds. She withdrew the strange, moss-like plant from Mirrowen from a pouch at her side and pressed it against Tyrus’s back. She felt her father tense with surprise as the magic coursed through him, closing his savage cuts and healing his wounds and his weariness. Color came back to his cheeks.

  She stared at him, stroking his face, smiling through her tears. “Father, we defeated Shirikant! Shion was the one who destroyed the Plague. His memories are restored. I know him now, I know about our race . . . about the history of our family.” She bowed her head, unable to speak all that was in her heart, realizing that her time with him was not ending, only beginning—that their time together would be lasting. “You were right in what you chose, Father. All that you sacrificed, all that you surrendered to succeed. It was worth all the hardships! The Plagues have ended. We were immune because of who we are. We’re descendants of Shirikant, Father. And we now have a destiny to prevent this evil from returning.”

  I will speak with him

  Phae felt the whisper as it rushed through her heart. She rose, drawing her father up with her. She held him close, burying her face in his chest, feeling his strength but trying to suffuse part of hers into him again. She gripped his hands and then turned, facing Shion and the Seneschal.

  “Father, this is the Senescha
l of Mirrowen. There is a task he will give you. I know him, Father. Our family must reverse the evils caused by our ancestor.”

  Tyrus stared at Shion, seeing the change that had overcome his countenance, the steadiness and confidence. The compassion. She could see Tyrus’s eyes noticing the talisman around Shion’s neck. Then he faced the Seneschal. Slowly, Tyrus eased down on one knee.

  “What would you have me do?” he whispered.

  The ground beneath Annon rumbled. A sudden jolt from below knocked him flat. A crack—as if the earth had split in half—sounded, deafening them. The remaining columns toppled, causing shrieks of fright to come from the quivering soldiers of Kenatos. Annon rose to his feet quickly, rushing up the final length of the ramp to the upper heights. He had passed the field unchallenged, seeing dead Weir all around. In the mist, he thought he had seen larger beasts ghosting in the shroud of vapor, their bulk twice the size of the Weir. He had hurried across the field, passing the carcasses, until he reached the ramp.

  As he stepped onto the top of the hill, he saw the shattered ruins up close. Some ancient fortress seemed to have once stood proudly, but it was toppled. As he stepped over a fallen buttress, he saw a shock of pale hair and recognized it. The dead eyes of Lukias stared absently, a trickle of blood coming from his ear. Annon stared at the corpse, feeling a twist of anguish mixed with relief. He realized in the image that the Order of the Rikes would fade into memory now. Would any remain to carry on their false traditions? What would be said of them in the future? That they were a mad religion that enslaved the races in a prison island known as Kenatos?

  Annon stared at the face, shook his head, and then pressed toward the center of the destruction. He felt a strange exhilaration in his blood, a sense of giddiness instead of fear. As he walked, the lightness in his chest grew to euphoria. All around him was devastation and destruction, but he felt peaceful and calm. He heard a whisper coming from the center of the ruins. The whisper sizzled in his heart, making his eyes sting with tears. His pace broadened, his mouth burning with thirst. Was that the sound of water? Up at the heights? He could not understand it. Where was it coming from?

  Spirits began to flit through the air. He saw them, dazzled by the streaks of color and intensity. A Shain spirit came up to him with enthusiasm.

  Come, Druidecht. Come! The Seneschal is here. The Seneschal of Mirrowen! Come!

  Annon felt a surge of relief and gratitude. He wiped his mouth, unable to contain the burst of enjoyment and thrill that surged inside his heart. Had they done it? Had they accomplished the task? As he stepped over the clutter of rubble, he came to a rift in the ground, the center of the hilltop. There were Hettie and Paedrin. To the side, he saw Baylen smirking as he arrived, the giant Cruithne nodding in welcome as they joined. Tyrus! Annon saw Tyrus talking to Phae and Shion, clutching a heavy black book to his chest and nodding. As Annon approached, he saw Tyrus turn and discovered a talisman around his neck.

  Annon was dumbfounded.

  Annon

  He felt the whisper in his mind and saw that there was another standing among them whom he had not seen before. He was a lithe and towering figure, with long dark hair and an expression of humility and respect on his face. The feelings surging inside Annon’s heart stunned him. He recognized the man. Somehow, it felt like it did when he saw Reeder after a journey. Annon knelt before the Seneschal of Mirrowen, feeling the enormity of the moment, the thought that most Druidecht lived their entire lives without ever glimpsing Mirrowen.

  Rise, Annon of Wayland—one of the Thirteen

  His heart swelled even larger and he felt tears trickle down his cheeks. He rose, seeing the greeting on their faces, seeing the joy in their eyes. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he felt it would be wrong to speak. That to do so would intrude on a sacred moment.

  The Seneschal faced Annon, who rose because he felt compelled to do so.

  “Welcome,” the Seneschal said, smiling. “Welcome to Canton Vaud. Do you accept your position as one of the Thirteen? You join others, like Tyrus and your friend Drosta. You must restore the Druidecht order under the guidance of its original founder, Prince Isic Moussion of Stonehollow. There is much you will learn about your blood and who you are. Do you accept the responsibility?”

  “I will,” Annon replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Good,” the Seneschal said. He then withdrew a sheathed dagger, which Annon recognized as the blade Iddawc. “The binding on this weapon will last for a thousand years. It must be safeguarded. Return it to Drosta’s Lair, where it may continue to remain hidden. The Druidecht must be summoned to this place. The safe road leads from Basilides to cross the Scourgelands. Poisonwell has been opened at long last.”

  “The way to Mirrowen?” Annon asked, his eyes gleaming with hope.

  “When you have all completed your tasks, you will be allowed to enter. If you desire it with all your hearts.”

  Annon saw the looks on their faces, saw the triumph in their eyes. The world would change forever. He dared not ask it, because he knew he did not need to. If he did what he was required, he would be allowed to enter Mirrowen. And there, he hoped, he would find Neodesha waiting for him.

  “The more I understand the lore and mythology surrounding the Seneschal of Mirrowen, the more humbled I am at all that has transpired, how the events of these days will reap a future we can only imagine. I asked Tyrus to try to explain why the Seneschal, powerful as he is, did not come to deliver us personally. Tyrus’s answer was fraught with wisdom, his words were simple: He who created us without our help would not save us without our consent.

  Tyrus returned to Kenatos with the rightful Arch-Rike, Band-Imas, whose body was discovered in the Rike vaults known as Basilides. He was still alive after many years, his body preserved through arcane spirit magic. He immediately relinquished his claim and status, choosing to become a Druidecht instead and to commence the rebuilding of the mighty fortress of Canton Vaud. He was joined by other Druidecht, who banded together to form a new mastermind, bent on restoring the lost Druidecht knowledge. Tyrus did not stay in Kenatos long—long enough though to set free the spirits entrapped in the city. He collected the volumes of the Paracelsus order, to be archived in Canton Vaud but no longer used. He has already collected most of the records from the Archives of Kenatos. All the records from the Archives will ultimately be transferred there. I am grateful that the one who sought to destroy all knowledge is no longer able to prosper.

  Kenatos and Boeotia have a truce. Relations with Silvandom also have begun between the two erstwhile hostile neighbors. The Empress Larei believes it will take several generations to unravel the hatred of her people. I do believe she may be right.

  The Cruithne are reconstructing Havenrook, beautifying the city with gardens and waterworks, harnessing the power of the rivers to invent great gristmills and other intriguing contraptions. The Preachán are restless, of course. They resent being thrust out of their ancient homeland. I predict we will see a series of skirmishes between their peoples before they learn to coexist. The King of Wayland is exerting his power more forcefully now. He controls the shipping between kingdoms and seeks to replicate the power the Romani once held. The king of Wayland is a distrustful man. He does not believe the reports from the Scourgelands. He believes it’s all a trick of some kind. There are rumors that the Romani have finally infiltrated Stonehollow. I don’t give these rumors much credence myself.

  For a more detailed history of what transpired surrounding the fall of the Scourgelands and the revoking of the Plague, I suggest the writings of Annon of Wayland, one of the Thirteen of Canton Vaud, when he has finished it. The Druidecht have excellent memories and I know the account will be archived in their histories when the libraries and vaults are finished. What an undertaking, millennia in the making.

  For all of my life, I have quested for the answer regarding the secret race of Stoneho
llow. I can now state with authority that they do have a name. They were called the Moussion, after the house of Aristaios Moussion, the being known as Shirikant. It was his partaking of the fruit that gave his descendants the fireblood. Because he was the originator of the Plagues, his descendants inherited a natural immunity to it. It turns out that their blood was helpful in preventing the disease from spreading. There are no records of the genealogy of this race, but if I could trace Tyrus’s line, I am certain to find that he is a direct descendent of the man. I asked him how he felt about that possibility. As with everything regarding Tyrus Grove of Kenatos, he only smiled enigmatically and said, ‘We cannot choose our parents.’

  I am grateful to have Tyrus as my ally. I consider him a personal friend and the man who rescued these forsaken lands from extinction.”

  - Possidius Adeodat, Arch-Rike of Kenatos

  XLVII

  He could not remember his name.

  Hunkering against a craggy oak tree, the man shivered with cold and weariness, trembling uncontrollably. Every snap of sound, every cracking twig, caused him to start. He was being hunted by a creature, a creature that came with the mist every night. It roared in menace, snuffling through the woods, seeking his blood. He could not remember why it hunted him. He could only flee until exhaustion caused him to collapse in the shattered remains of the woods. There was no north or south, no east or west—only a never-ending maze of oak trees and desiccated leaves. He had no weapons anymore. Part of his mind nagged that he should have two. Yet he had nothing, not even a water flask. He’d been forced to drink brackish water and eat disgusting mushrooms to stay alive. There was no game and no way to hunt it. There was no ending to the maze.

  His throat was scratchy and parched. The only pond he had found was full of strange, puffy fish, which he found too loathsome to try to snare. The water was hideous and made him retch and gag. He touched his face, feeling the sores again. His face and arms were full of sores. His breathing quickened again, hearing the distant cry of some winged creature. Ticking sounds came from his left, startling him. He rose, brushing off the decaying leaves, and started walking once more.