The Immortals of Myrdwyer

by Brian Kittrell

  “You could say that.” Laedron sat on the chair in the corner, then opened the bottom dresser drawer and propped his feet on it.

  Marac stared at him.

  Probably trying to think of some smart remark . Laedron asked, “You have nothing to say?”

  “What could I say? These things, in the course of love, happen.”

  Not quite what I expected, but I’ll take it. “She needs some time to… cool off.”

  “I hope she gets there soon. We have no time for games on the road,” Marac said, then crawled into the bed and rolled onto his side. “Goodnight.”

  After Marac and Brice had fallen asleep, Laedron sat awake in the chair staring at the ceiling and wondered if his instincts were correct, if he would better serve them in the end by keeping his distance from her. I can choose no other way at this juncture, for all other paths seem to lead inexorably to fault and defeat. Damned Fates, if only I could sleep, if only I could have a rest from these thoughts.

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  ← Chapter Two | Chapter Four →

  Tracking Farrah Harridan

  Laedron glanced at Valyrie as they walked back to the bookstore the next morning. She hates me. I just know she does, and I won’t be surprised if she takes the first ship back to Azura. He felt love—true, unstoppable adoration—for her, but for the sake of everyone’s safety, he couldn’t indulge those feelings. I care for her. That’s all that should matter now, but we can’t endure if we don’t maintain our resolve. Being open and acting however we might like could weaken our coherency and put us all in grave danger. Later, when all of this is done, when we’re safe to do whatever we please and live the lives we choose for ourselves, things will be different. I only hope that it won’t be too late to rekindle what we have—what we had.

  After passing through the gate and entering the bookstore, Laedron locked eyes with an elderly woman seated near the fire.

  Shanden said, “Ah, you’re back.”

  “You’re the boy who’s found one of my books, are you?” the old woman asked, eying his every move. “Come to discuss Far’rah Harridan, have you?”

  Far’rah. Is the emphasis at the end important? “Yes, madam. Well, my friends and I—”

  “We should speak in private. Come along, young man.” With the aid of an oaken cane, the woman rose and proceeded to go into a room in the back of the store.

  Laedron turned to Shanden. “My friends can’t come with me?”

  “My mother—Callista, to you—demands privacy.”

  “Why? Anything that she says will be relayed to my companions anyway.”

  “You’re the sorcerer, aren’t you?” Shanden wiped the counter with an old, dusty rag, his frankness striking to Laedron.

  “Yes.” For a moment, he wondered if he had entered some sort of secret coven of mages, its existence hidden from the watchful eye of the Heraldan church. Only by hiding their natures could sorcerers survive in Lasoron. The church’s grip on these lands is too tight for it to be otherwise.

  “Then, she will speak only with you,” Shanden said, pointing over his shoulder toward the back room. “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Laedron wanted to say, “And I don’t like to be apart from my comrades, especially in circumstances such as these,” but he didn’t. Reluctantly, he took the book from Valyrie—after she handed it over in a rather aggressive manner—and approached the door leading to the rear chambers of the structure. He took a deep breath, then entered through a red curtain.

  Two fireplaces in a shop this small? he mused, taking in his surroundings. The old woman had already claimed a plush chair at the fireside, and a blanket was draped over her lap. Beneath her straight silver locks, a large emerald adorned a golden pendant at her breast, and she wore the necklace over a long-sleeved shirt with a tight collar and a floral print.

  “You’ve brought a book for my examination, young man?” Her voice reminded him of the kind, elderly ladies of Reven’s Landing, but she spoke with more strength, an underlying authority.

  He handed the book to her. “Yes, madam. We seek answers—”

  “Answers? Or power?” Callista leaned forward and filled her cup to the brim from a teapot. “Care for any?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” She gestured at the other chair.

  He sat, but leaned forward in anticipation of what she might reveal. “You were saying? Power?”

  “He’s hungry.” She laughed. “Perhaps you’re not the one they seek.”

  “They? What do you mean?”

  “We’ll get to that in due time.” She eyed him as if inspecting prey just before the kill. “Tell me, what do you know of Far’rah Harridan?”

  That emphasis again. So strange. “Know of her? Well, I—”

  The old woman erupted with laughter. “Nothing, I see. Will it be for the best, though? We shall see.”

  Frustrated, he sat in silence.

  “Good.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “It would seem you are willing to listen. I’ve met many sorcerers, young man, and before now, I figured them all for fools.” She must have taken the tea down the wrong pipe because she choked, coughed, and covered her mouth with a frilly napkin. “Drunk with their own ambition, they were unwilling to listen to a wise word from an old woman.”

  “I think you’ll find me quite atypical of most mages.”

  “I hope that is the case.” Despite the apparent danger of doing so, she sipped her tea again, then placed it on the table next to her. “So, this book. A wondrous thing. A dangerous thing.”

  He watched her while she rubbed the blank cover, her eyes closed tight, her face exhibiting a sort of longing. I’ve seen mages obsess over spellbooks before—Ma was the world’s worst—but I can’t recall anyone feeling this strongly about some regular old book.

  “A transcribed history,” she said, opening her eyes and peering at him. “Well, as close as one can make a transcription without the original. A book of rituals and magic. A cry for help.”

  He furrowed his brow. “A cry for help?”

  “Indeed.”

  “How so?”

  “To attract those seeking out the secrets of which it speaks, to draw them here, to me, and only the ones clever enough to find me can proceed.” She exchanged the book for her cup and sipped more tea. “The allure of everlasting life, of limitless magical power. Attractive, is it not?”

  “No,” he replied flatly.

  She spit the tea back into her cup, the liquid dribbling down her chin. “No?”

  “The greater the power, the more men seek to possess it. If I were ever to find it, I would do best to be rid of it.”

  “Interesting.” Dabbing her mouth and chin with the ruffled cloth, she set the teacup aside. “If you mean what you say, you would be the first.”

  “Then, I might be the best to help you. What do you mean by ‘a cry for help’?”

  She looked around the room as if the answer were written somewhere on the walls. “We have time, and we’ll get to that.”

  He leaned back in the chair.

  “The best place to begin would be with your questions. What are they?”

  At the present time, I’ll be careful about what I reveal. I’m still unsure of this woman’s intentions. “This book speaks of an ancient ceremony, of becoming a wizard, and a font—”

  She closed her eyes. “’He would take on the qualities of magic itself; he would be restless, impervious to toxins, and needing little sustenance. Flowing through him like water in the river, magic would embody his existence.’ Yes, I know the passage well.”

  Remarkable. She can recite the tome as if reading straight from the page . “What does it mean?”

  “Exactly what it says, young man.”

  “Are you a sorceress?” He studied her for evidence of sorcery, but she had no wand, spellbook, or anything else that mages usually carried. “You must be.”

 
; “You confuse memory with ability.” She smiled, and although she probably meant no harm, the grin was unsettling. “No, I’m not a mage myself, but I’ve known quite a few. Did you have any other questions?”

  “I’ve been troubled by restlessness lately.”

  “Go on.”

  “My appetite has been easily quenched, and no matter how much ale I consume, I feel nothing.”

  She rubbed her chin. “It would seem that you’ve been dabbling in things not meant for mere mortals, Sorcerer.”

  “It was done to me. I had little choice in the matter.”

  “Nonetheless, it would seem that you’ve been put on the road to becoming a wizard. What you do next will determine your ultimate destination.”

  “And what choices lie ahead?”

  “You speak as if they’ve already been made for you.”

  He sighed. “Enough of these games.”

  “The choices are simple: become a wizard or do not.”

  “That’s it?”

  “In essence, yes. I merely point out the way to both, and in the end, you decide.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And what lies along the way?”

  “Many things.” She glanced away. “The village of Laslo shall be your first stop. From there, head west until you come upon a road in disrepair, an ancient highway.”

  “And after that?”

  “Follow it to its end, and if you were meant to, you’ll find the choice you seek.”

  “What’s out there?”

  “Myrdwyer.” She spoke the word with perfect Uxidin inflection.

  “Meer—dwai—ur?”

  “The lost land of the Uxidin, young man. An old forest in which secrets may be learned from the voices that have gone silent.”

  “What does that have to do with the cry for help that you spoke of?”

  “Everything.” Taking the oak cane in hand, she stood. “Now, off with you. I’ve told you all that you need to know.”

  He shot up from his chair. “You’ve told me nothing.”

  Stopping at the curtain, she looked over her shoulder at him. “It’ll have to be enough, for it’s all I know.” She paused as if trying to make a decision. “It’s been a number of years since anyone’s come asking about the Uxidin or that book, young man. Be careful in the ruins.”

  He knew she was lying about not knowing more, but he saw nothing to be gained by pushing her. Joining his friends near the gate outside—they had apparently tired of waiting in the shop—he said, “We must head north to the village of Laslo, then west to a place called Myrdwyer.”

  “What? Where?” Marac asked.

  “A lost settlement of the Uxidin.”

  Valyrie blinked rapidly. “A lost one? As in, no longer populated?”

  At least she will speak to me. “That’s what the old woman—Callista—said.” Laedron started toward the inn.

  “But that’s crazy,” Brice said, catching up to him. “What’s the point of going somewhere with questions if there’ll be no one to answer them?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but it’s the only lead we have. I must know what’s happening to me.” He sighed. “If she thinks I have a chance of learning more in the ruins, then to the ruins I must go.”

  * * *

  Laedron and the others picked seats around a small table situated in the corner of the inn’s common room. Each ordered a meal from the serving woman.

  Once they had received their food, Laedron asked, “Any thoughts as to when we should leave?”

  Marac glanced at the nearby window. “Only a few hours of daylight left, and we still need to gather supplies for the journey. First light in the morning?”

  Although Laedron would have preferred to leave sooner, he couldn’t argue with the fact that they would need provisions. “Good. The morning, then.”

  Brice nodded, then turned to Valyrie. “You know anything about this area?”

  “A little,” she said. “What is it that you’d like to know?”

  “How to get to… where are we going, Lae? Myr…”

  “Myrdwyer.”

  Valyrie shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a place. It’s not on any of the maps I’ve seen.”

  “We’ll ask the innkeeper,” Laedron said. “Marac, you and Brice should see about some horses.” He several gold coins across the table while being careful to conceal them with his hand.

  After Marac and Brice had gone, Laedron and Valyrie walked over to the innkeeper’s counter, and Laedron handed a silver coin to the man. “It appears that we’ll be staying one more night.”

  “Fine,” the man said, pocketing the coin.

  “Might I ask a few questions?” Laedron asked.

  The innkeeper nodded.

  “Are the roads dangerous in these parts?”

  The man stopped wiping the counter and leaned closer to Laedron. “Aye, a bit. Some of my guests refuse to take to the roads, what with the war, the army heading east, and everything else. Highwaymen, young man. Running rampant.”

  “Why is the army heading east?” Valyrie asked.

  “I hear tales,” he said. “Lots of stories about the dead walking out from the swamps.”

  The Almatheren Swamp? Yes… I remember hearing about that. “Have you ever seen one of these… walking dead men?”

  The innkeeper paused. “Aye.”

  “Well?”

  “It isn’t pleasant. The meat hanging off of them, the dead stare of their eyes. Murderous beasts. Best cut off the head quick lest they take yours.”

  “They come after the living? Why?”

  “Hard to say. If I was one of them, I’d say it was an insatiable envy, a want to be alive again, and a hatred for those who have what I did not. A curse of the Necromancers who’ve made them, I’d say, or a command to do whatever evil they can before being returned to Syril by the edge of a blade. Their souls are eternally tormented in the dark rituals of the evil mages, or so it seems.” He paused when Laedron’s breathing hastened. “You needn’t worry about that, though; the army’s off to send them back to the hells. You should keep your concern on the roads that have gone unchecked.”

  “No one’s left to guard the routes?”

  “They’ve little choice, for the undead are numerous and do not negotiate. The army’s always patrolled the roads, and with the soldiers gone, the bandits have come out of the woodwork. Open season on traders and couriers, or anyone braving the highways.”

  “When would be the best time to travel?”

  “During the day. Harder for them to sneak up on you that way. Of course, some might still attack; a bandit’s motivation lies in two places—his stomach and his purse—and the emptiness of either guides his decision-making.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “Think nothing of it. As a purveyor of fine liquors and not-so-fine lodgings, I’m obliged to help my customers. It’s part of my job, really. If a little information might help them, well… a client who stays alive might come back and be a client again.”

  Laedron returned to the table. “Looks like we’ll have to keep a sharp eye while on the road.”

  “He spoke of bandits. That doesn’t worry you?” Valyrie asked.

  “Shouldn’t be any more trouble than we’ve already faced. Robbers tend to be disorganized, and not many are a match for a sorcerer in the company of knights.”

  “Suppose they’re well-organized and have a sorcerer of their own?”

  “Don’t worry, Val. We’ll prepare for any possibility.” Laedron turned to the door when it opened and saw Marac and Brice returning. “And, Val, about last night—”

  “Think nothing of it. The mission, remember? Nothing is more important than that,” she replied, a certain nonchalance about her. She doesn’t mean that. If she’s trying to make me feel guilty, she’s doing a damned good job of it.

  Holding up a scrap of paper, Marac grinned. “Four geldings, and they’ve given us a deal since few are seeking horses for travel the
se days.”

  “Good. We depart at first light,” Laedron said, reading over the receipt when Marac passed it to him.

  * * *

  Night fell across the city, the white walls of the stone towers darkening with the setting sun, and Laedron retired to the room with Marac and Brice. He wanted to say something before Valyrie closed the door to her room, but he didn’t. Things are so delicate between us that I’d rather give her space. No, I’d like to be in her arms this last night, but I should have thought about that before I said what I did. I’ve been such an idiot.

  “She’ll be all right in the end, Lae,” Marac said, plopping onto the bed, his tone making him seem almost sympathetic to Laedron’s plight. “You’d better get some sleep. We have a long way to go in a short time.”

  Nodding, Laedron sat in the corner chair, hung his shirt over the back of it, grabbed a bed sheet, and closed his eyes, trying to force the remorse of his many mistakes and failures from his mind. I couldn’t help Ismerelda. I was barely a match for Gustav, and Andolis nearly killed me. I’ve driven the only woman I’ve ever loved away, and only the Creator knows if she’ll ever forgive me for that. Damned spells! Damned magic! If only I could sleep away these thoughts. He shifted his weight to get comfortable and quickly realized that if being a wizard meant never sleeping again, he wanted no part of it. He’d drive himself insane long before the usefulness of his power became apparent.

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  ← Chapter Three | Chapter Five →

  The Highways of Lasoron

  Laedron pulled the sheet over his bare chest, his skin prickled by the cool air. Then, his eyes shot open at the drowsy feeling. Have I slept? The inky darkness of night had dominated the landscape, and the last thing he remembered was staring out the window and watching the nightlife of Nessadene. Can it be so? Is the spell losing its power over me? Am I cured, or shall I die by its fading?

  Not wanting to disturb Marac and Brice, he rested his head on the pillow. For a moment, he wondered where the pillow had come from, but the thought was fleeting. The night sky like a weight on his eyelids, Laedron once again fell asleep.