Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (25 page)

Paedrin paused, weapon ready, scrutinizing the stranger.

The voice was deep, as deep as a barrel. “You do not have much time to determine whether to trust me. But I can lead you to safety this night if you choose to believe me. Either way, the Fear Liath comes. Make your decision.”

Dark eyes appeared in the concealment of the cowl, which the stranger lowered, revealing a huge mane of gray-black hair. The mustache just below his nose was darker than the rest, as were his prominent eyebrows. But his swarthy skin and bulk showed him to be a Cruithne. And the talisman around his neck revealed he was also a Druidecht.

A gush of relief went through Annon’s heart on seeing the token. “I trust him.”

Hettie no longer resisted and released the tension in the bowstring.

“In a few more moments, your time to decide will be shattered by raking claws and the most horrible hide-stench you can imagine. You are in its lair still. I, for one, would prefer safety to debate. The choice is yours.” He turned abruptly and started back down the mountainside at a solid pace, crushing the branches and debris as he walked.

Paedrin glanced at Annon in surprise.

“He is Druidecht,” Annon said, grabbing Hettie by the arm.

Erasmus needed no convincing. “The odds of surviving until daybreak have just improved,” he said.

Paedrin lingered amidst the campfire a moment, then followed them down the hillside. The mist continued to fall until it engulfed them all in a fetid-smelling cloud. A terrible roar sounded behind them, splitting the air with a shriek that went down into Annon’s marrow. It was close behind them. Very close. There was a shuffling noise in the distance. The Fear Liath was tracking them.

The Cruithne increased his pace, each step announcing their location with thunder. If a small tree stood in the way, he simply went through it, snapping the trunk and causing it to crash awkwardly away. Redwoods towered over them, but the lower branches were lost in the thick gauze of milky white fog.

Annon nearly twisted his ankle on a root, and Hettie helped catch him before he fell. He wanted to keep turning around, but Paedrin scowled at him and gestured to keep his eyes on the Cruithne ahead. The shuffling noise grew louder, turning into a bark-like sound.

“This way,” boomed the deep voice as he approached a lightning-struck redwood, one that had fallen and shattered so that only the tangle of exposed roots lay revealed. The thorny fingers of the roots made it seem like some enormous monster, but it was hollowed out by fire and created a small cave. It was not quite tall enough to stand in, but the Cruithne did not hesitate; he hunched forward and entered the cave-like entrance of the tree stump.

Hettie followed and Annon came up behind her. The Cruithne was breathing fast, but he stopped to rest along the curved structure of the cave. Erasmus joined them and chafed his hands for warmth. His breath came in puffs of smoke. Paedrin stood outside, staring into the maw of the tree. The mist trailed
off his shoulders. He turned back and stared into the fog, at the sound of the approaching hulk.

The Cruithne watched him, saying nothing. “Stubborn one,” he murmured softly.

Hettie nodded in agreement. “Paedrin!” she snapped. “Get in here!”

“It’s a tree stump,” he replied, not looking back.

“It is a gate to Mirrowen,” the Cruithne whispered.

“What?” the Bhikhu said. “You speak in riddles.”

“Trust us,” Annon soothed. “There is shelter here. Come.”

Paedrin hesitated a moment longer. Stubborn defiance seemed to make knots in his shoulders. His one arm was strapped to his side, but he still looked menacing, waiting for a battle. Waiting to test himself against his fears?

“Who are you?” Annon asked the Cruithne.

“My name is Drosta,” he answered.

Paedrin whirled at that, his eyes wide with interest. He stepped into the cave-like opening, crouching so as not to brush his head against the root fingers. The chill of the mist began to dissipate. The fog started to fall apart.

There was a roar, a roar of helpless frustration and fury.

“The Fear Liath is blind to us now,” the Cruithne said with a mocking smile. “That angers it.”

“Why can’t it find us?” Paedrin said, staring at the old man’s face.

“You would not understand if I explained it. What was important is that I won your trust in as few words as possible. In desperate moments, scorching truth is needed, not convincing argument. We do not have long to speak. What I must say is crucially important. Listen for as long as you can.”

Annon was about to interrupt, but the Cruithne held up his massive, thick hand. “You will be asleep in moments and
will awake at sunrise in a different place. This is a gateway to Mirrowen, and you will suffer the effects to mortals. Remember as much as you can. A little learning, indeed, may be a dangerous thing, but the want of learning is a calamity to any people. That has been the failing of Kenatos. Not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of wisdom. My name was Drosta Paracelsus. And you have found my blade. I fashioned it. I made it. It is called the Iddawc.”

He motioned for Annon to produce it. As he uncovered it from within his cloak, the Cruithne’s face crumpled into a dark scowl. “It lives. It is a spirit weapon. There is a spirit hosted inside it, and Iddawc is its name. Knowing this, you can control it. There is only one being such as this in all of this world or Mirrowen. It was discovered by the Cruithne deep in the mines. I cannot tell you how many were killed before we learned what it was capable of doing. It was a Druidecht who warned us, but I was foolish. I knew it would be valuable to trap such a being. I devised a plan, and the Arch-Rike approved the price. I will not tell you the price, for it would be unseemly. We did not trap it; we helped it transform. It was my vanity, my pride. You see, power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did, and it never will.”

As Drosta spoke, Annon felt his mind growing thick and foggy. He was weary. More weary than he had ever been in his life. Glancing to the side, he saw that Erasmus was already asleep, jaw open. Hettie’s chin was bobbing as she struggled to stay awake.

Drosta grabbed Annon’s shoulder and squeezed with his powerful fingers, digging in to invoke pain. “It concedes nothing! You are a Druidecht as well. The spirits have told me that you are faithful. You must listen to me. The Paracelsus in Kenatos are trapping spirits, binding them into service. The lamps of the city do not create smoke. They do not create heat. Their light is
borrowed by spirits, who are enslaved for a season. The terms are odious to them. They are slaves! They are compelled to serve because they were captured. The Cruithne learned the craft. We created the Paracelsus order. Stay awake!”

Annon’s eyes drooped shut and he blinked furiously. His arm throbbed with pain. But even that was beginning to subside.

“The weapon only serves one master at a time. It will
only
serve one. It will seek a powerful man and subvert him. When he is dead, it will seek out another. This is the Iddawc’s hunger, its terrible power. It kills and has power over death. One cut from its blade severs the life’s string. It was commissioned by the Arch-Rike as a weapon for his most feared protector, the Quiet Kishion, but it was never used as such. Tyrus of Kenatos arranged to have it stolen. To be hidden from the world without claiming more victims.”

“Can it be destroyed?” Paedrin asked. He was down on one knee, gazing intently at the huge man.

“Never,” he replied. “The Iddawc cannot be unmade. It will exist until its length of service has expired. That is well beyond my lifetime or even a dozen lifetimes. It was bound for ten generations. We are only in the second right now. It cannot be destroyed and must be hidden and safeguarded. It has no master but seeks one. I can hear it right now, and it disgusts me because even I crave it. I, who created this evil thing, in my foolish vanity I brought it into existence. A weapon to conquer death.”

The final words were slurred and Annon felt his head bob. He struggled against the sinking oblivion of sleepiness. “Be wiser than I. Those of Kenatos are treacherous and claim to preserve knowledge. They preserve slavery, the slavery of beings that they cannot even see. What sympathy exists in a kingdom that enslaves others? When a civilization quietly submits to such a
practice, you will have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong that will be imposed upon
them
. I have spent my days attempting to redress the damage that I inflicted on the spirits of Mirrowen.” He gripped the talisman around his neck, tears bulging in his eyes. “They know my heart and they trust me. I was once their greatest adversary. Now I am like you. A humble Druidecht.” He leaned forward, his voice husky with emotion. “Tyrus knows this truth as well. He and I are brothers in mind. We are likeminded. Remember this. It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. Forgive him for abandoning you. It cost him greatly. But there is so much at stake. So very much at stake.”

Annon heard the mumbling bass of Drosta’s words, felt the pain recede in his shoulder as he floated into the invisible threads of slumber. The horrors of the mountains faded. The chill night air was replaced with a comforting warmth. He thought he could smell flowers, not night jasmine but the heady scent of hyacinths and roses. There was a trickling of water, the soft lapping sounds carrying him away.

Remember.

Remember.

Remember
.

“I once caught a young Rike tearing a page from an ancient book. I chastised him severely and rebuked him for violating his sworn duty to preserve knowledge. He said the page contained blasphemy and that it should be destroyed by fire so as not to taint the minds of men in the future. After a scolding and a thrashing, I told him that if the truth cannot bear the scrutiny of candlelight, what will it do if exposed to the sun? He apologized profusely for his error and swore he had only destroyed three such pages out of one hundred books. The Arch-Rike assured me that he would be assigned to a stewardship other than the Archives. The young make so many mistakes. They lack wisdom.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

S
leep enveloped Annon like a shroud, burying him beneath layers of warm blackness. There were voices murmuring in the stillness, the faint whisper of the breeze rustling branches. The patter of rainfall, or was it a brook? Everything was hazy and tangled. But the sleep ended when a hand clutched his shoulder and jerked him hard.

“Annon!”

He was confused, snapping out of a forgotten dream and realizing that sunlight came in streamers through a copse of thin yew trees and half-blinded him. The smell was different, not the heady scent of pine and thin mountain air. Now, it was a lowland smell, thick with the pungent smells of grasses and weeds and brush.

“At last! Wake up, boy!”

He jolted, recognizing the sound of his uncle’s voice. Twisting with a sudden desperateness, he whirled and beheld Tyrus kneeling over him. At first, he could not believe his own senses. His uncle, his face, his towering presence. Shock thundered inside him, and then he felt the first swells of anger.