Chasing the Prophecy
Page 113
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Nedwin also instinctively knew that he had been dead less than a day. This was the night after he had been killed. Why was he so certain? Was he guessing based on how little his body had decomposed? After feasting on his blood, the worms would have set about repairing and preserving him. Perhaps the worms knew how much time had passed, and at some level the knowledge was transferrable.
Reaching over his head, Nedwin climbed the rope attached to his neck. It required little effort. His muscles felt stronger than before. Interesting.
Squatting in a crenellation between merlons, Nedwin untied the noose. The wet rope could have proven tricky, but his fingers were strong and nimble.
A guard was coming his way, walking along the battlements. A dutiful man. Most would seek shelter during a downpour of this intensity. They would keep watch, but they would wait until the rain relented to actively patrol the walls. Nedwin crouched low, trying to keep his pale, freckled flesh out of view.
The blood of the oncoming guard was the sweetest aroma Nedwin’s nose had ever savored. It was an olfactory symphony. He hungered for it, thirsted for it. He craved that blood like he craved sleep, air, friendship, and peace. The blood promised to satisfy all urges and to heal all wounds, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual.
Lightning forked across the sky, jagged and close. Thunder crackled mightily.
The blood was off-limits. He had to remain in control of his urges. The worms had claimed his body. He could not let them have his mind. To taste that blood would spread the plague. To spread the plague would betray Galloran much worse than any of his previous failures. He had to resist. If he lacked the will to resist, he should have stayed dead.
Leaving eight fingers in view, Nedwin dangled from the wall and listened to the guard walk past. The guard did not pause. Nedwin pulled himself up, approached the guard from behind, seized him, and flung him over the wall. The man cried out before striking the ground. His armor clanged. The storm dampened the noise.
What next? Several stairways ran down the interior of the wall. Nedwin strode to the nearest one, hurried part of the way down, then leaped to the roof of a storage building. Working his way across the roof, Nedwin could feel the shingles creaking underfoot. He tried to be more careful and soon realized that he had lost some of his ability to move in silence. Was it due to a subtle reduction in motor skills? The loss of some instinct he had taken for granted? Interesting.
After hanging from the eaves of the storehouse, Nedwin dropped to the wet paving stones, landing in a crouch. Drenching rain pelted down around him. He took cover behind some barrels under the eaves. The rain and darkness would help hide him, but he could take nothing for granted. A lanky, pale, mostly unclothed man in the yard of a castle would draw the eye even under inclement conditions. All it would take was a single vigilant guard and the light of a lantern.
He needed to reach the stables and the castle entrance hidden there, but any route he took would force him to cross open ground. He was currently shrouded in shadow, but light gleamed from many windows and lanterns. More lanterns would be lit if the heavy rain persisted.
Nedwin wished for a cloak or a blanket. With the rainfall he had an ideal excuse to hide his face and move quickly. There would be useful items inside the storehouse, but the sturdy door was locked, and without his tools he could not pick it.
As the downpour lessened, Nedwin realized that if he hesitated any longer, he might lose his best chance to reach the secret passageway below the stables. Risking open ground while the rain was heavy would be safer than risking open ground once the guardsmen resumed their regular patrols.
Nedwin crept from building to building, staying near walls and vegetation, taking cover wherever it was available. He found a soiled, sodden blanket in a handcart and wrapped it over his head and shoulders. It failed to cover his bare legs, but it provided a far better disguise than nothing.
The rainfall had become gentle by the time Nedwin reached the stables. They were dark and saturated with the odors of horses—hay, oats, wood, leather, mud, dung, hide, and especially blood. The allure was not nearly as strong as with human blood, but it smelled much more appealing than any meal Nedwin could remember.
Ignoring the scents, Nedwin found the hatch to the basement and then the disguised hatch to the subbasement. Down in the darkness, his fingers found a hidden catch, and he proceeded into a quiet hall.
The smells here were mustier—dust, stone, wood, rot, mildew, and rat droppings. Nedwin caught whiffs of the living rats, noting that rat blood smelled nearly as desirable as horse blood.
He could see nothing. Nedwin had no seaweed, and no way to light the torches stashed beyond the entrance. But he could smell his way easily. He could smell the walls as clearly as see them, just as he could smell the open spaces of the halls and rooms. He could even smell the locations of spiderwebs.
While prowling the black corridors, Nedwin noticed for the first time that his heart was no longer beating. He paused, feeling the lack of a pulse in his wrist, then his neck, and finally his chest. More than hanging from the wall, more than his enhanced sense of smell, more than his memories of the fatal injury, the lack of a heartbeat forced Nedwin to confront the reality that he was truly dead.
Nedwin rubbed his jaw. His life was over. He no longer belonged in this world. He was an abomination. His body housed the seeds of a horrible plague. If those seeds were planted in others, all of Lyrian would become like Ebera.
He had a final mission to accomplish; then he could rest. He would be careful. He would need the orantium. On his way to the hidden stash of twelve globes, he kept his ears alert. Hearing had been his sharpest sense for years, and it was frustrating to have it hampered. Even without perfect hearing, it soon became evident that a feast was in progress. If Copernum was in attendance, the meal might provide just the opportunity he needed.
Stealth had already failed him. This time Nedwin would rely on overwhelming force. He would not survive, but survival was no longer a priority. He was already dead.
Nedwin found the orantium as expected, the twelve spheres bundled together in a sack, sawdust packed between them to help prevent an accidental detonation. He handled the sack gingerly.
By unseen passages Nedwin made his way to the dining hall. He climbed a ladder and peered out through a portion of tapestry that had been carefully thinned. Since he was looking from the darkness into the light, the colorful tapestry was almost transparent, affording him a good view of the roomy hall.
Nedwin stared in awe, hardly trusting his eyes. Not only was Copernum present, but so were the lords who had collaborated with him, including Dolan and the grand duke—more than forty conspirators in total. Who else had he expected to attend a feast sponsored by the usurper? Copernum was too smart to permit potential enemies near him at this early stage of the occupation.
Reaching over his head, Nedwin climbed the rope attached to his neck. It required little effort. His muscles felt stronger than before. Interesting.
Squatting in a crenellation between merlons, Nedwin untied the noose. The wet rope could have proven tricky, but his fingers were strong and nimble.
A guard was coming his way, walking along the battlements. A dutiful man. Most would seek shelter during a downpour of this intensity. They would keep watch, but they would wait until the rain relented to actively patrol the walls. Nedwin crouched low, trying to keep his pale, freckled flesh out of view.
The blood of the oncoming guard was the sweetest aroma Nedwin’s nose had ever savored. It was an olfactory symphony. He hungered for it, thirsted for it. He craved that blood like he craved sleep, air, friendship, and peace. The blood promised to satisfy all urges and to heal all wounds, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual.
Lightning forked across the sky, jagged and close. Thunder crackled mightily.
The blood was off-limits. He had to remain in control of his urges. The worms had claimed his body. He could not let them have his mind. To taste that blood would spread the plague. To spread the plague would betray Galloran much worse than any of his previous failures. He had to resist. If he lacked the will to resist, he should have stayed dead.
Leaving eight fingers in view, Nedwin dangled from the wall and listened to the guard walk past. The guard did not pause. Nedwin pulled himself up, approached the guard from behind, seized him, and flung him over the wall. The man cried out before striking the ground. His armor clanged. The storm dampened the noise.
What next? Several stairways ran down the interior of the wall. Nedwin strode to the nearest one, hurried part of the way down, then leaped to the roof of a storage building. Working his way across the roof, Nedwin could feel the shingles creaking underfoot. He tried to be more careful and soon realized that he had lost some of his ability to move in silence. Was it due to a subtle reduction in motor skills? The loss of some instinct he had taken for granted? Interesting.
After hanging from the eaves of the storehouse, Nedwin dropped to the wet paving stones, landing in a crouch. Drenching rain pelted down around him. He took cover behind some barrels under the eaves. The rain and darkness would help hide him, but he could take nothing for granted. A lanky, pale, mostly unclothed man in the yard of a castle would draw the eye even under inclement conditions. All it would take was a single vigilant guard and the light of a lantern.
He needed to reach the stables and the castle entrance hidden there, but any route he took would force him to cross open ground. He was currently shrouded in shadow, but light gleamed from many windows and lanterns. More lanterns would be lit if the heavy rain persisted.
Nedwin wished for a cloak or a blanket. With the rainfall he had an ideal excuse to hide his face and move quickly. There would be useful items inside the storehouse, but the sturdy door was locked, and without his tools he could not pick it.
As the downpour lessened, Nedwin realized that if he hesitated any longer, he might lose his best chance to reach the secret passageway below the stables. Risking open ground while the rain was heavy would be safer than risking open ground once the guardsmen resumed their regular patrols.
Nedwin crept from building to building, staying near walls and vegetation, taking cover wherever it was available. He found a soiled, sodden blanket in a handcart and wrapped it over his head and shoulders. It failed to cover his bare legs, but it provided a far better disguise than nothing.
The rainfall had become gentle by the time Nedwin reached the stables. They were dark and saturated with the odors of horses—hay, oats, wood, leather, mud, dung, hide, and especially blood. The allure was not nearly as strong as with human blood, but it smelled much more appealing than any meal Nedwin could remember.
Ignoring the scents, Nedwin found the hatch to the basement and then the disguised hatch to the subbasement. Down in the darkness, his fingers found a hidden catch, and he proceeded into a quiet hall.
The smells here were mustier—dust, stone, wood, rot, mildew, and rat droppings. Nedwin caught whiffs of the living rats, noting that rat blood smelled nearly as desirable as horse blood.
He could see nothing. Nedwin had no seaweed, and no way to light the torches stashed beyond the entrance. But he could smell his way easily. He could smell the walls as clearly as see them, just as he could smell the open spaces of the halls and rooms. He could even smell the locations of spiderwebs.
While prowling the black corridors, Nedwin noticed for the first time that his heart was no longer beating. He paused, feeling the lack of a pulse in his wrist, then his neck, and finally his chest. More than hanging from the wall, more than his enhanced sense of smell, more than his memories of the fatal injury, the lack of a heartbeat forced Nedwin to confront the reality that he was truly dead.
Nedwin rubbed his jaw. His life was over. He no longer belonged in this world. He was an abomination. His body housed the seeds of a horrible plague. If those seeds were planted in others, all of Lyrian would become like Ebera.
He had a final mission to accomplish; then he could rest. He would be careful. He would need the orantium. On his way to the hidden stash of twelve globes, he kept his ears alert. Hearing had been his sharpest sense for years, and it was frustrating to have it hampered. Even without perfect hearing, it soon became evident that a feast was in progress. If Copernum was in attendance, the meal might provide just the opportunity he needed.
Stealth had already failed him. This time Nedwin would rely on overwhelming force. He would not survive, but survival was no longer a priority. He was already dead.
Nedwin found the orantium as expected, the twelve spheres bundled together in a sack, sawdust packed between them to help prevent an accidental detonation. He handled the sack gingerly.
By unseen passages Nedwin made his way to the dining hall. He climbed a ladder and peered out through a portion of tapestry that had been carefully thinned. Since he was looking from the darkness into the light, the colorful tapestry was almost transparent, affording him a good view of the roomy hall.
Nedwin stared in awe, hardly trusting his eyes. Not only was Copernum present, but so were the lords who had collaborated with him, including Dolan and the grand duke—more than forty conspirators in total. Who else had he expected to attend a feast sponsored by the usurper? Copernum was too smart to permit potential enemies near him at this early stage of the occupation.
