The Immortals of Myrdwyer

  The

  Immortals

  of

  Myrdwyer

  A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #3

  Brian Kittrell

  Persons, places, and other entities represented in this book are creations of the author and do no represent any real place or entity currently or formerly in existence or any person living or dead. The work is derived solely from the author's imagination. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without explicit permission granted by the publisher in writing. Any and all inquiries to the publisher of this work or the author of this work should be dispatched to the address listed below with Attn: Publisher or Attn: Mr. Kittrell, respectively.

  Electronic Edition

  The work is published by:

  Late Nite Books

  P.O. Box 321

  Brandon, MS 39042

  email: admin@latenitebooks.com

  The Immortals of Myrdwyer © 2012 Brian Kittrell

  Cover design by Brian Kittrell with some artwork/art elements (commonly known as “brushes”) used from Obsidian Dawn (http://www.obsidiandawn.com). It is with great appreciation and admiration that I was allowed to use these assets for creating part of this cover. Rights for reuse granted specifically by Obsidian Dawn (or their representative) in the form of licensing terms found on DeviantArt at http://www.redheadstock.deviantart.com/journal/12379986.

  eBook formatting, coding, and design by Brian Kittrell.

  Connect with the Author

  You can find and connect with author Brian Kittrell through the following venues:

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/author.BrianKittrell

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/Brian_Kittrell

  Website & Newsletter: http://www.latenitebooks.com

  eMail: brian@latenitebooks.com

  Preceded by: The Circle of Sorcerers and

  The Consuls of the Vicariate

  This is the third and final book of the Mages of Bloodmyr series

  Table of Contents

  —Prologue

  —Chapter One, The City of Nessadene

  —Chapter Two, Of Bookstores and Spellcrafting

  —Chapter Three, Tracking Farrah Harridan

  —Chapter Four, The Highways of Lasoron

  —Chapter Five, Onward to Laslo

  —Chapter Six, The Middle of Nowhere

  —Chapter Seven, An Ancient Highway

  —Chapter Eight, What Lurks in the Dark

  —Chapter Nine, Refugees in Their Own Land

  —Chapter Ten, Meaningless Morals

  —Chapter Eleven, Far‘rah Harridan

  —Chapter Twelve, The Catacombs of Myrdwyer

  —Chapter Thirteen, Crystal Caverns

  —Chapter Fourteen, Kareth’s Workshop

  —Chapter Fifteen, Showdown

  —Chapter Sixteen, The Bloodmyr Tome

  —Chapter Seventeen, Land of the Trappers

  —Chapter Eighteen, All Things End with a Choice

  —Chapter Nineteen, The Vicariate

  —Chapter Twenty, The Knights of Westmarch

  —Chapter Twenty-One, A Royal Reception

  —Chapter Twenty-Two, Once Upon a Thimble

  —Chapter Twenty-Three, The Miller‘s Son

  —Chapter Twenty-Four, The Comforts of Home

  « Table of Contents

  Chapter One →

  P R O L O G U E

  The reign of Grand Vicar Tristan IV has come to a violent end, and an unlikely peace settles over the Bloodmyr Isles. Aldric Jurgen is declared Grand Vicar of the Heraldan Theocracy and anointed as Petrius III. In his first act as leader of the church, Jurgen proclaims that priests shall no longer hold disdain for sorcerers, and he arranges for the city of Azura to celebrate the deeds of Laedron Telpist and his friends, the heroes responsible for ending the war and wresting power from the Drakars.

  From Sorbia to Gotland, from Falacore to the Qal’Phamet Empire, voices are heard whispering the story of a young mage and his party who have defeated the Zyvdredi in the Heraldan lands. Some voices speak of these happenings with joy and celebration, while others tell tales of murder and intrigue against their brothers and sisters.

  With their work finished in the Holy Land, Laedron, Marac, Brice, and Valyrie depart for Lasoron, a land of vast forests. Laedron seeks The Bloodmyr Tome, an artifact of untold magical power, and the secrets of someone named Farrah Harridan, one of which he hopes will provide answers for his peculiar condition.

  « Table of Contents

  Chapter Two →

  The City of Nessadene

  Laedron went to the forecastle of the ship and gathered his companions. “We’re close to Nessadene, and we’ll soon disembark on these foreign shores.”

  Marac nodded. “Right. Once we get everything together, we’ll meet you outside.”

  Laedron returned to the top deck with his bag in hand, then waited for the crew to tie off and lower the gangplank. The ivory faces of the buildings gleamed by the glow of fire in the street lanterns, and he thought they were constructed from limestone by their unblemished appearance. By the time he could step off, Marac, Brice, and Valyrie had joined him.

  “Have you ever seen a city like Nessadene?” Brice asked, taking a long look at their surroundings.

  “Quite different, I must agree.” Laedron pointed at the distant buildings as he walked down the plank. “Smooth stone and painted—or stained—stark white.”

  Hearing a peeling sound at each step and smelling turpentine, Laedron reckoned the pier had been constructed of pine timbers and the boards had recently been replaced. Pine is hardly the sturdiest of woods from which to construct a pier. Perhaps it’s in abundant supply here? Even some of the roofs and walls of buildings had been built with pine, a feature Laedron noted as they passed along the road. When he heard the flapping of cloth in the wind, he looked up to see the Lasoronian flag—two bars, one green and one white, with the symbol of the griffin, the mythical winged lion once thought to inhabit the forested lands of Lasoron.

  “We’d better find lodgings first. Somewhere to rest our heads,” Marac said, casting a wary eye on the strangers who walked near them. “How about that one? Looks like an inn.”

  What about the heads that need no rest? Laedron turned to see the building Marac had indicated. In front of the two-story structure, signage—a carving of a bed and a moon—had been hung near the street. Laedron nodded. “As good as any, I suppose.”

  Unlike the other nearby buildings, the inn had both pine shingles and walls. Looks like only the larger buildings are made of stone. Maybe it’s too great an expense to waste stone on a hostel.

  He followed Marac through the door, past a dining table with seating for twenty or so people, and approached the innkeeper, a burly man clothed in black, who stood behind a counter of pine. “What’s your rate for four rooms?”

  “Four? We don’t have four rooms available, I’m afraid.”

  “How many do you have?” Laedron asked, then looked up to see a number of well-made steins painted blue, purple, red, and green on a shelf above the bar.

  The man flipped through his ledger with his fat fingers, then picked at his beard. “Two.”

  Laedron glanced at Valyrie, then returned his gaze to the man. “We’d have to double up, but we can manage.”

  “Fine. How long will you stay? One night?”

  “Better make it two. The morning after the second, we’ll let you know.”

  “Two silvers, then.” The innkeeper extended his hand, received the coins from Laedron, and offered two brass keys in exchange. “Up the st
airs and down the hall. Four and five.”

  “Thanks.” Laedron gestured at the steins. “By the way, who made all of those?” Laedron gestured at the steins.

  “When I have nothing else to do, I’ll work on a new one.”

  “You did them all?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine, and the customers sit and stare for hours. Good for business, you see?”

  Laedron nodded. He kept one key and gave the other to Marac, then led the way upstairs. Valyrie followed Laedron to the door marked with the numeral four, and Brice went with Marac into Five.

  Before Marac closed his door, Laedron called out, “Get some rest. In the morning, we must sort out our plans to find this Farrah Harridan.”

  Laedron opened the door. The room was hardly worth the silver piece demanded for rent. The curtains did little to provide privacy, and he wondered if they were capable of stopping any sunlight whatsoever during the day. No matter. ‘Tis but a room, a room I don’t plan to inhabit for long, but some creature comforts would have been nice. The bed seemed to be comfortable, and he didn’t feel awkward at seeing one bed in the room, as he had felt when he had traveled with Ismerelda. Observing Valyrie, he noted that she seemed comfortable with the furnishings, as well.

  Never again. He snatched the wand and scepter from his bag before sliding it under the bed with their other luggage, remembering how he had left his casting implements in a room the last time he had really needed them. I’m keeping these in my boot.

  He walked around the bed, peered through the dirty glass of the window, then turned to Valyrie, casting uneasy glances between her and the bed. “I don’t expect—”

  “No need to be silly, Lae. We’ve slept next to one another before. Why would this be any different?”

  He nodded.

  “Besides,” she tossed her bag onto the bed, “it was you who stopped things from becoming too serious the last time, if you don’t recall.”

  “I just wanted to be clear, to put you at ease.”

  She laughed, then shook her head. “Nonsense.”

  “Well, that’s settled.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled one of his spellbooks from his pack. “I suppose you’ll want to get some sleep. Will my reading keep you awake?”

  “Actually,” she said, falling on the edge of the bed, “I’d much rather learn a little about magic. You said that you could teach me, right?”

  “Yes, but it’s late, and you’ll need to be fresh for the morning.”

  “Can’t you fix that?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Fix that? Fix what, exactly?”

  “My tiredness. Use a spell to restore me, to make me feel as if I’ve slept.”

  “Well, yes, I could.” He folded his arms. “What makes you want to learn magic, anyway? I can’t deny its allure, but what specifically?”

  “What? I cannot be curious?” she asked, smiling. “When I met you, I saw an opportunity to learn how to cast those spells I read about in my books. Will you teach me?”

  “Very well, but it’s not something to be undertaken lightly. So long as you realize that, we can proceed.” He reached into his boot and handed her his beginner wand. “This is a wand, the most basic of casting implements.”

  She ran her fingers along the shaft, examining the intricate carvings of runic symbols. “What’s its purpose?”

  “To hold your attention while you concentrate. To prepare and cast a spell, you require concentration, an utterance, and an implement like a wand. All of those things come together and manifest into an event—a spell.”

  She stood. “What will I learn first? Fire? Lightning?”

  “Not so fast.” He chuckled. “You must learn to crawl before you can walk. First, I shall teach you of the dreaded vibrancy illusion.”

  “Dreaded?”

  He laughed. “My sister hated it. I can still see the look on her face when I last practiced with her—a grimace of disdain for the simpler aspects of magic.”

  “Did you train her?”

  “No, not exactly, I merely tutored her in addition to my mother’s teachings.” He drew his scepter from his boot. “The vibrancy illusion is nothing more than the conjuration of harmless light. It’s mostly useless, but it is a spell you must learn and master.”

  Raising the scepter, he chanted the words and swayed the rod. A pale green light dripped from the ruby. Maintaining the spell, he drew shapes in the air that briefly remained before fading away. Her eyes lit up at the spectacle, then he released the spell. He repeated the incantation several times until she could vocalize it without his help.

  Nothing happened when she said the spell—not a spark, glimmer, or glint. She shook the wand violently. “Why isn’t this thing working?”

  Laedron dodged out of the way of the wand. “It won’t work on its own, for a wand is only a tool; the user must be skilled in its use.”

  “What am I doing wrong?”

  “You’re not concentrating.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not,” he insisted. “Introversion. You must go within yourself, to the depths of your very being. Summoning magic is the act of going against reality to affect change.”

  She nodded, then started again. He paced in circles around her while repeating the incantation until she could say the words without his help. As a sparkle of light appeared at the end of the wand, he smiled.

  She gasped, her face full of excitement, but she must have lost her concentration because the light faded away. “I did it! Did you see?”

  He felt as Ismerelda must have upon seeing a student succeed. The apprentice has become the teacher. “Yes. Very good. Now, again.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled, then extended the wand. Chanting the words, she waved the wand to and fro. A glimmer of light appeared just beyond the tip. He noticed her face turning red, the veins in her neck tensing beneath the skin, and a sway in her hips. The headache’s coming on strong now, but she resists. Watching her, he became amazed at how fiercely she fought the urge to end the spell. Such vigor. Good.

  “Let go,” he said. “Let it go before you lose consciousness.”

  Releasing the spell, she fell to her knees, dropped the wand, and grabbed the sides of her head with both hands. “Unbearable!”

  He crouched beside her and put his hand on her back, a move that Ismerelda and his mother would probably have frowned upon had they seen it. ‘A mage must suffer in solitude. Otherwise, he will never learn to cope,’ Ma had said. Can I not show her some compassion? Some understanding? Is there only one true way to instruct a student?

  Though obviously in pain, she smiled at his touch. “I can only imagine what you must feel when you conjure your spells, the ones far greater than this.”

  “It gets easier.” He helped her to her feet. “With practice, you build up a tolerance. While you continue your learning, that tolerance becomes a resistance, and you learn to forge through the pain.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “After a few weeks, you’ll learn to anticipate the headaches and stop before they grow too intense, and as you go along, you’ll find the pain easier to bear.”

  “Weeks?” She lowered the wand.

  “Does that disappoint you?”

  “I only mean to say that we may need to take it slow. The pain is greater than any I’ve ever experienced.”

  “’Tis only the beginning.” He opened his spellbook and tore away the pages with his writing, leaving only the blank ones. “Take your notes in this. You need it more than I do.” Lifting the cover of one of Ismerelda’s spellbooks, he slid his old notes inside.

  * * *

  With the morning light pouring through the disheveled curtains, Laedron cast a spell to reinvigorate Valyrie’s body, then exited into the hall. He found Marac and Brice coming out of their room at the same time. “Let’s see about getting something to eat.”

  Descending the stairs, Laedron detected the scent of steamed oats and fresh-cut fruit—apples, pears, and peaches
, if his nostrils and memory did not betray. Upon reaching the base of the stairs, he turned and walked over to the innkeeper. “Do you offer meals for your renters?”

  “Indeed. A breakfast of porridge comes with the room, but we have other things if you don’t care for the stuff.”

  “Porridge?” Laedron asked, glancing at the others joining him before returning his gaze to the innkeeper. “What’s that?”

  “Boiled oats.”

  Laedron wrinkled his upper lip. “What other things do you have?”

  “Whatever you’d like,” the innkeeper replied, gesturing at the long table. “Over there.”

  Laedron nodded, then walked over to the table, sat, and retrieved three apples from a bowl. He wasn’t able to make out much of the inn the night before due to the dark, but he could tell that the innkeeper cared more about the tavern than the lodgings. The curtains didn’t have holes, the linens were clean, and the chairs and tables were in far better condition than the beds and dressers in the rooms.

  Marac inspected the fruit bowl, then selected some pears. Valyrie and Brice joined them, each with a bowl of porridge in hand. Brice took the sugar, milk, and spices right after Valyrie, as if he didn’t know how boiled oats were best eaten and was merely following her lead.

  Laedron unfolded the scrap of paper Jurgen had given him just before their departure from Azura. “We passed this street on the way here. Twelve Pinecrest.”

  “A house?” Marac asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but Jurgen looked through old church ledgers and discovered that address to be the source of the books.”

  “Better place than any to start,” Brice said.

  “Finish up. I’m going to see if I can find anything out about the place.” Laedron rose and walked over to the innkeeper. “Are you familiar with this address?”