The Immortals of Myrdwyer

by Brian Kittrell

  Although the proposition of following some stranger through darkened halls didn’t appeal to him, Laedron turned to his companions. “Have we any choice but to follow?”

  “If he meant us harm, he would have attacked in the blind,” Marac said. “You don’t give up your advantage, talk, then turn your back on people you intend to kill.”

  Laedron glanced at Brice and Valyrie, and both nodded in agreement. “I suppose we’re in agreement, then.” He quickened his pace to catch up to the man, the others close behind.

  He counted each step until he reached a hundred, then he stopped trying to keep track. When they came to a rope bridge, Laedron and his companions gawked in every direction at the domed cavern.

  The view captivated him. He stood at the edge of eternity, the vast abyss beneath the rope bridge and the vaulted dome above so massive that their footsteps hadn’t produced an echo when they arrived. Through a hole across the expanse, a waterfall emptied into the chasm, and he gulped when he noticed that he couldn’t see the water striking the bottom of the pit.

  “You built this place?” Laedron asked once he’d gotten his senses about him.

  The man shook his head. “My people merely put the bridge over it and smoothed the walls.”

  “Your people? The Uxidin?”

  The man looked surprised. “Indeed.” Gesturing at the rope bridge to his left, the man proceeded across, and Laedron followed, afraid to speak a word lest the utterance snap a rope or a plank. Don’t look down. Look anywhere but down. It was like being on the ancient bridge over the vale they’d crossed days before, but he didn’t know if he was glad or more frightened that he couldn’t see the bottom.

  Once on the other side, the man picked up his pace, but finally stopped at the end of another stone hallway. “Be respectful within this place.” The door opened at his touch, and light poured through the opening.

  Inside the room, thirty people were huddled in small groups, and the place stank of unwashed bodies. All of them wore clothes too big for their frames, and Laedron noticed that their skin had drawn tight over their faces, ribs, and hands. Children had apparently painted murals on the walls with whatever they could find. From the wide strokes making up the images, he figured that the drawing implements had most likely been fingers dipped in mud or soot. He couldn’t quite tell what the pictures represented, but it somehow made the people seem kinder, gentler than how they appeared.

  So many of them , Laedron mused, glancing at their faces as they walked. They seem terrified by us. All of their faces bore dirt and scars, and most of the people were elderly and infirmed. “Are we safe enough to share names?”

  The man stopped halfway into the room. “Tavingras. You may call me Tavin. From what I know of mortals, you would prefer not to waste your time with long names.”

  “Very well, Tavin. I’m Laedron Telpist.” Glancing at the people in the dim light, Laedron felt as though he had entered an asylum for the destitute. “Why do you hide yourselves in this manner?”

  “If the Trappers weren’t roaming the forest, we would have no reason to hide.”

  His eye twitched. “Trappers?”

  “You haven’t seen them? Horrible creations, part crystal and part essence pulled from the living. Soul-suckers. Upon finding anything still alive, they make no small effort to deprive that body of its life essence.” Just as quick as Tavin produced a sack from his robes, a little child, one of only a handful in the room, ran up, snatched the bag, then disappeared again. “Eat them slowly and enjoy them, for it took quite a while to find those,” Tavin called to the girl. He turned back to Laedron. “This wolf’s body should be a good meal compared to what we’ve been eating.”

  “You can’t reason with them? These Trappers, as you call them?”

  “No. Our enemy prefers his slaves to be willing, able, silent, and uncompromising. They do not speak, and we have no evidence that they’ll listen to anything we have to say. Cold killers set to a singular task.”

  Marac raised an eyebrow. “Your enemy?”

  “I’ll explain that later, for to hear the name is hurtful to my people.”

  “What was in the bag?” Laedron asked, trying to see the child behind the adults.

  “I went out to find nuts and berries earlier. The pickings are slim of late.” Tavin motioned at a side door, and Laedron and his friends followed. Laedron assumed that the room was Tavin’s private quarters because furniture for every purpose had been arranged about the space, and clothes similar in size and style to the ones Tavin wore hung on the racks near a row of bookshelves along the back wall. In the center of the room sat a table with a few chairs beside a desk littered with books and scraps of paper. Laedron felt a little constricted near the entrance, for the room had clearly not been designed for five people to occupy it at one time. If all this furniture wasn’t in here, I doubt it would feel so cramped.

  When he closed the door behind them, Tavin continued, “The Trappers have killed most of the animals, everything not quick enough to escape, and the gathering trips yield less and less each time I go.”

  Brice leaned against the wall beside the door. “How long have you been down here?”

  “Too long have we rotted in this prison,” Tavin replied, a coarseness underlining his disdain for those walls. “Far too long. To be honest, it’s difficult to say, for I don’t go out into the woods every day.”

  Laedron noticed the spines of books shelved in the bookcases bearing titles written in Zyvdredi. “What is this place?”

  “The remnants of the wells. Long ago, the pit we passed was filled with fresh water, and the water rose in a vast network of pipes to the city above. Due to a lack of maintenance, the great cisterns have cracked and leaked, leaving huge, empty pits.” Tavin shrugged, then chuckled. “It’s ironic that this place, a place where none of us now living ventured before the fall, is all that’s left of our empire.”

  “And those Zyvdredi books?”

  “Zyvdredi?” Tavin glanced at the tomes. “That’s Nyreth. The Zyvdredi are a group of people, not a language, young man. The people from the noble house of Zyvdred, a sect of the ancient Nyrethine empire, to be specific.”

  “What did you do? Before ‘the fall,’ I mean.”

  “Caretaker of the Hall of Tomes, but titles matter little in these times. Now, I am merely a steward of a dying people, all of us living each day while wondering if any given hour will be our last.” Taking a deep breath, Tavin stared at the ceiling. “Kareth has gotten his revenge, it would seem, if that was indeed his purpose.”

  “Kareth? Who, pray tell, is that?”

  “In the ruins above lives a vile being known as Kareth. He was once one of us, an Uxidin, but for his crimes, he was expelled from our city.”

  “His crimes? Killing your people?” Brice asked.

  “In a way, but—”

  “But that wasn’t his original offense.” Laedron leaned forward. “The novel is decades old.”

  “Novel?” Tavin seemed puzzled.

  “A book read for entertainment. Stories, tales, and fables. You don’t have them?”

  “What need does it fulfill?”

  The man’s never heard of reading for pleasure? Laedron gave his friends a curious look, then returned his gaze to Tavin. “It’s not important. Go on with what you were saying.”

  “Many years ago, Kareth killed our elder-priest and stole an artifact, our dearest and most prized possession. If you’ve heard of it in your society, you would know it as The Bloodmyr Tome.”

  “I’ve heard this Bloodmyr Tome discussed at length, but no one seems to know what it really is. Perhaps you can tell us more of it?”

  “It is the physical manifestation of all Uxidin magical knowledge, the key to reality itself. Within its pages, magic is intermingled with a written history of our people. Do you know what magic truly is, Sorcerer?”

  “Conjuring—”

  Tavin shook his head, then sat on the edge of his desk. “It is to command re
ality, to issue a set of instructions to the real world to do as you say. Thus, anything is possible.”

  “So, The Bloodmyr Tome is a spellbook of sorts?” Valyrie asked.

  “To be simple about it, yes, but it’s much more than that. And if Callista sent you here, you must be willing to retrieve it in exchange for something that you desire.”

  Marac clasped his hands. “I can understand why you would want it back, but given that it contains, according to you, all knowledge of magic, why would anyone want you to have it back?”

  With a confused expression, Tavin asked, “What do you mean?”

  Brice stroked his chin. “I think what he means to say is that the world hasn’t ended since you lost it. Who’s to say that returning it to you would be a good idea?”

  “Because Kareth stole it. It’s ours, and stolen property should be returned to its proper owners. We want it back.”

  Laedron detected something odd about the way Tavin had replied. I don’t think he’s lying, but he’s not telling the entire truth, either. “If you want our help, you’ll have to tell us everything, no matter how dreadful that prospect might be.”

  Tavin stood from the table, walked over, and sat on the corner of the desk. “To understand why, I must tell you of our history and how we came to be the way we are.”

  “I think it would benefit us all to know,” Laedron said, despite Marac’s sighing. “Go on.”

  “Long ago, we—Uxidin, Zyvdredi, and all the rest—were but noble houses of one people, one empire: the Nyrethine. Our lands and our people spread out across this continent from end to end, where so many nations—mortal nations—stand today. This was the time before Azura, before the Great War, long before anything that you would recognize.

  “When the Creator gifted us with magic, we were instructed in its use, but the knowledge was too great for any single person to remember. The Bloodmyr Tome was created, by the Creator’s hand, so it is said, to store the knowledge, and it was bestowed upon the Elder Priest for safekeeping.”

  “And these stories were passed down to you?” Laedron asked.

  “By the Elder Priest, yes. In all of Myrdwyer, we have had three, each one—”

  “Three?” Laedron’s jaw dropped. “That would make each one—”

  Tavin nodded. “Thousands of years old. Yes.”

  “Thousands… it’s difficult to fathom living for so long.” He thought about Ismerelda. Although he never knew her true age, she had told him that she fought at Azura’s side in the Great War over a thousand years ago.

  “Amazing, is it not? And that brings us to our dilemma.”

  “Does it?”

  “Of course.” Tavin stared at Laedron. “The Bloodmyr Tome contains, amongst a number of secret spells and historical records, the secret of immortality, a secret of which we have a dire need.”

  “I don’t understand. The Uxidin are immortal.”

  “Yes, but nothing lasts forever. We can live for quite a long time, but not before we receive the Font… and we must, periodically, be renewed.”

  Yes, the Font. He considered what he had seen come to pass, and he remembered Jurgen speaking of Vicar Forane’s thirst for eternal life and her treachery. It is a shame to see one so devoted give in to the lure of a font of youth. “You would have us find this tome and use it to drink the souls of others? Just so you can live forever?”

  Tavin sighed. “No, you do not understand. We would never use cheap Zyvdredi tricks and certainly not at the cost of others. Allow me to continue.”

  Reluctantly, Laedron nodded. Is there any way to achieve immortality without placing a cost of some sort on others?

  “In the ancient era, the Nyrethine were divided into houses, and the three most prominent were Uxidin, Falacore, and Zyvdred. Whereas the Uxidin and Falacoran houses used the life forces of nature—trees, plants, that sort of thing—to rejuvenate, the Zyvdredi used any life force available. They became enthralled by the feeling of the renewal; it was like a drug to them, and it didn’t take long for the Zyvdredi to deplete their homeland of nearly every tree and plant. Then, they turned on the animals until those, too, were gone.

  “The earth became rocky and barren where there once had been mountains ringed with vegetation. Where there had been forests and grass, the land turned to desert or ice, whichever was quickest to claim the land. With nothing else to satisfy their desires, the Zyvdredi turned on each other.”

  “On each other? They killed their own people?”

  “The strong ones sucked the souls from their lessers, and eventually, the only ones who remained were those in the highest positions of power, their children, or mighty wizards. Zyvdred went from an empire based upon material riches to one based upon the trading of souls. To facilitate their enterprise, they stored the essence of men in black gems.”

  “Like these?” Laedron produced a handful of soulstones from a pouch on his belt, then held them out for Tavin to see. “We found them on assassins in Azura.”

  “Are they…?” Tavin gulped, seemingly afraid to finish the question. “Filled?”

  “Yes, we think so. Can you release them?”

  “I can, but they will return to the ether, for only the essence, the raw life energy, remains. Though I would normally not endorse the practice, you may want to keep them for your own uses.”

  Getting a bad feeling, Laedron furrowed his brow. “No, I don’t think I could. Isn’t it Necromancy?”

  “Necromancy?” Tilting his head, Tavin appeared confounded by the question, as if he was trying to determine the meaning of the word.

  Laedron explained, “Death magic. The realm of darkness and evil, the spells practiced by the Zyvdredi to hurt the rest of us.”

  Tavin tightened his lips. “I only know one kind of magic. No spell can make you pure or foul. Good and evil are in the methods, how you use that knowledge, and the purpose, the end result you wish to achieve. You simply must know where you stand and avoid the taint of darkness in all that you do.”

  Replacing the stones in his bag, Laedron nodded. “Please go on. Sorry for interrupting.”

  “Ah, yes. Where was I?”

  “The trading of souls,” Valyrie said, obviously captivated with the story.

  “Yes, of course. Once the Zyvdredi had defiled their lands, House Falacore and House Uxidin responded in different ways. To prevent the same thing from happening, the Falacorans banned the practice of renewal, the font spells, and immortality in their lands, and their people returned to their mortal forms once the magic wore off. Not long after that, the Uxidin, my people, disallowed the Zyvdredi access to our country. A civil war began, and the nations of the north split into several new states: Falacore, Zyvdred, Lasoron, Albiade, and the land which is occupied by the Heraldan Theocracy now.”

  “Was that before or after Azura?” Laedron asked.

  “After the Great War, but before the War of the Eagles. The Falacorans found our decision too harsh, and the Lasoronians and the Albiadines simply wanted to be independent and saw an opportunity to act. Thus, the Uxidin, the Zyvdredi, and we suspect, the Falacoran royal family became the only immortals, for The Bloodmyr Tome remained with us. We acquire our essence from nature, these ancient trees, while the Zyvdredi gain sustenance by stealing souls.”

  Marac stood. “And now, you’ve lost your spell.”

  “Indeed.”

  Laedron asked, “If we do not agree, what happens?”

  “We die, Sorcerer. Men’s life energy can be extracted easily, as can the essence of grass or small animals, but the spell contained in that sacred text is the only one we can use to draw out the essence of the ancient forest. And it is that essence which we use, for we aren’t apt to follow down the road of the Zyvdredi. That path leads to corruption.”

  “You said grass and small animals. Why not use those?”

  “The Trappers have depleted this forest of all but the most elusive animals, and to absorb the essence of grass… you would be wasting your time, for you
could do nothing other than seek out new spots of brush. Its essence is nearly as weak as dead earth or rock.”

  “No one thought to write down this spell?” Valyrie asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “If you had recorded the spell somewhere else, you wouldn’t have this problem. You wouldn’t need the tome.”

  “We have a number of reasons why it was never copied elsewhere. For one, its location was secret, known only by the Elder Priest, and it was only brought out in public when a renewal had to be performed. Second, the pages of the tome are the only channeling instruments that can withstand the power of the spell, and third, it had been used for thousands of years without issue. We had no reason to change. Lastly, creating copies of the spells could have had dire consequences if they had fallen into the wrong hands.”

  “The wrong hands… like Kareth’s?” Valyrie asked, sarcasm dripping from her words.

  “Indeed. The Elder Priest was careless, and The Bloodmyr Tome was lost.”

  Laedron laced his fingers together in his lap. “Where, if we should choose to help you, are we to find the tome?”

  “Kareth has it in the ruins, in the old temple. Deep beneath it.”

  “Are those the ruins near the secret entrance to this place?”

  “No. We’re standing beneath what remains of the ancient library, which was nearly as large as the temple.”

  “If you know where it is, why haven’t you sent anyone to get it back?” Marac asked. “Why wait for someone to fetch it for you?”

  “We’ve tried, but we’ve failed. Many were lost in the attempt and the counterattack that followed. We had to seal the hallway closed to keep Kareth’s creations out, and it took weeks to build our secret entrance. Since then, most of our people have grown weaker, both in magic and in their own physical abilities. That’s why the Far’rah sent out the call for help to Nessadene. In Callista, we found an ally.”

  Laedron raised an eyebrow. “The Far’rah?”

  “Forgive me. The Elder Priest. Far’rah is the title of our highest authority, for when the empire fell, our faith is the only structure that remained intact. When Kareth killed the previous Far’rah, a new one was appointed.”