Brian Kittrell - The Immortals of Myrdwyer

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.”