Brian Kittrell - The Immortals of Myrdwyer

“Yes, Westmarch.”

“Westmarch?”

Laedron furrowed his brow. If he hasn’t heard of that city, he’s been secluded considerably longer than I had imagined. “A city in my homeland.”

Harridan nodded, but Laedron knew it was more of a dismissive gesture than one of agreement or knowledge. “Anything else, Sorcerer?”

“Can you tell me anything about the Almatheren Swamp? The Netheren? I was told they were an undead variant of the Zyvdredi.”

“Since the Zyvdredi derive from men, just as Uxidin do, it suffices to say that the Netheren do indeed come from Zyvdredi roots, and Almatheren is home to most of the world’s population of them. By infusing a corpse with life essence, the Zyvdredi created legions of the creatures.”

“Do they control them somehow?”

Harridan chuckled. “I’m sure they wish they could, young mage. No, and that’s part of the reason the swamp exists. The undead, chaotic as they are, went to live-if you can call it that-in Almatheren after a series of unfortunate events. Unfortunate for the Zyvdredi who created them, at any rate.

“You see, the Zyvdredi created far too many and over too short a time. The creatures couldn’t be controlled, and some might say they developed some modicum of intelligence. The Netheren killed their masters-well, those not killed by other Zyvdredi-and went to live in the obscurity and seclusion of the wetlands.”

“The Lasoronian army marches east to face them. Why would the Netheren pose a threat if they simply want to be left alone?”

“Who can be certain what the walking dead truly desire? I can speculate on their reasons, but if the army is headed that way, it can only be because the army is the appropriate tool to use in the present situation. Did you have anything else for me?”

Though Laedron had a number of questions he could have asked, he decided that some of the things he’d wondered about would be useless if posed to Harridan because he had little knowledge of the outside world in the present times. “Did you ever meet Azura?”

“Since the subject of your question has become something of a divinity, are you asking as a sorcerer or as a worshipper?”

“Could I, being a mage, ask in any way other than as a mage?”

“Just checking, young man, for speaking of my experiences with Azura could be construed as blasphemy by some. I only wanted to be sure that you accept her as a gifted sorceress and not as a god.”

“My family and I follow the Old Religion of the Creator.”

“Good. Yes, I did know Azura. I left Uxidia prior to the Great War and that business with… oh, what’s his name?”

“Tristan?”

“Yes, Tristan. She should have known better than to mingle with mortals. He, like all the rest, couldn’t be expected to accept our strange ways or the fact that we are immortal. Tristan’s church is one of hypocrisy; we have magic, they have miracles, but both are the same with different names. The priests believe that their power comes down as a blessing from the Creator, whereas in reality, they do the exact same thing we do.”

“Thank you.” Pulling the cloth containing the ruby pages from his bag, Laedron watched as Harridan’s eyes narrowed. “Here you are.”

Harridan took the small package and ripped open the cloth open. His pleasant demeanor changed to one of anger and contempt. “What happened to it?”

“We recovered the pages to the rejuvenation spell. You will find it there in its entirety.”

“Was the book not there? A ruby book ten times as thick as this,” Harridan said, holding the stack close to Laedron’s face. “We must have the tome!”

“It is no more. Apart from those pages, only chips and shards of ruby remain of the original book.” Not the whole truth, but that’s what happened.

Harridan eyed him with suspicion. “You did that, didn’t you? Smashed it into a thousand pieces?”

“Yes.”

“Damned fool,” Harridan whispered, as if the words came out more from reflex than any voluntary act. “Who are you to do that? To destroy our most sacred, our most holy text?”

Laedron turned and reached for the door.

Harridan stopped him. “Answer me. You’ll answer me, or you won’t leave this chamber alive. I swear it.”

Now, the man shows his true colors . Laedron looked back over his shoulder. “No man deserves to be a god, and that is precisely the purpose of that book. Your faith may claim that it was given to your people by the Creator, but do you know what I think? I would venture to say that the tome was crafted by a powerful wizard in eras long forgotten, the spells chiseled upon those pages frightful even to him.”

“You think our history is a lie? You come into my chapel and spit in my face?”

“I think that, with no small measure of avarice, someone took that tome from whoever created it, then claimed it was a gift from on high.” Laedron clenched his fists. “Whatever the reason, the book should never have been made with spells so powerful, so dangerous to the world. Think what you will, but the deed is done. The Bloodmyr Tome shall threaten no one forevermore.”

“To think that I had planned on sharing things with you-immortality, the secrets of wizardry, and the foundations of magic itself-”

“You must have gotten the wrong impression of me, for I want none of those things. You have so quickly forgotten what I just said: men were never meant to be gods.”

“Get out!” Harridan jabbed a finger toward the door. “Never pollute our halls again, and go before I change my mind.”

“You still have your precious immortality, great Far’rah. Perhaps you should be thankful that we returned even that.” Laedron opened the door, and once he crossed the threshold, Harridan slammed it.

The people gathered in the chamber stared at Laedron, the slamming door obviously catching their attention.

He gazed back at them and said, “Be careful in whom you place all your hopes, for they may not hold your best interests with their own.”

Laedron turned and walked away.

* * *

Finding his friends in the hollow of the tree, Laedron stood watching them, unsure what to say.

“Well?” Marac finally asked. “What happened?”

“I posed my questions-the few that I ended up asking-and gave him the spell.” Laedron sighed. “He was furious when I told him what had happened to the tome.”

“You told him the truth?”

“Yes. Better to tell him now than to risk his sending more of his people after the tome.”

Marac approached, put his hand on Laedron’s shoulder, and said, “Good. At long last, we can go home. Home , Lae.”

He smiled. “Almost, but I want to see Jurgen one last time.”

“Jurgen? He has little need of us now, Lae. With the Zyvdredi gone, he’s surely busy with church affairs.”

“No, I think that’s a good idea,” Brice said.

Marac looked cross. “And why in the world is that a good idea to you, Thimble?”

“I… um…”

“Oh, I remember now… Thimble thinks he’s got a sweetheart in Azura, doesn’t he? Collette was her name, wasn’t it?” Marac grabbed his belly and laughed.

“And why not?” Brice puffed out his chest and put his hands on his hips. “So what if I want to see her again? And Caleb and Piers?”

“And Jurgen,” Valyrie said.

“Fine, fine. I’m only playing with you, Thimble.” Marac crossed his arms and stared at the floor. “After all, when might we venture to these shores again? My family will have to wait. But I do ask that we make it brief. I miss my father more than any of our new acquaintances combined.”

“That’s the spirit.” Brice smiled. “It could take a while to get back, but it’ll be worth it.”