Chasing the Prophecy

by Brandon Mull

  How soon before more guards came after him? Any minute. The thunder of the orantium would summon soldiers from all over the castle. Some of the guards might want to hesitate. They would hear what had happened from the survivors. They did not know he was out of orantium. And he was supposed to be dead. But not knowing that their leader had perished, they would also fear his wrath if they failed to act.

  Nedwin walked toward the fire that still blazed in the hearth. He had deliberately not disturbed it with his barrage of orantium. He needed that fire.

  Nedwin glanced at the secret passage. The dining hall remained still. He might be able to sneak away.

  No. He had been fortunate. He had not only eliminated Copernum, but he had executed most, if not all, of the men capable of taking his place. Without the might of the giants, without treacherous nobles orchestrating the occupation, another revolution was inevitable. Justice had been served. The traitors had been punished. When Galloran returned, he would find allies running Trensicourt, not enemies.

  Shuffling forward, Nedwin accepted that he would never see Galloran again. He would not be here to welcome his master home. But stories of this night would be everywhere. Galloran would find that his former squire had held true to the end, and that meant everything.

  Nedwin paused near the hearth. The bright flames hurt his eyes. The warmth bothered his skin. Every instinct screamed for him to withdraw.

  What if Galloran failed? What if the king never returned to his kingdom? If Maldor emerged victorious, Nedwin could unleash the plague and spoil the victory. Nedwin reconsidered a hasty escape. He thought about weeks of hiding, feeding on animals, waiting for news.

  No. Too much could go wrong. For now, he felt certain that no worms had escaped his body. He had to keep it that way. He had to trust Galloran. But what if Maldor won? Nedwin bowed his head. He had no right to destroy the world. He had served Galloran to the best of his abilities. He must not sully his sacrifice. Bringing the worms out of Ebera had been his responsibility. Galloran had never authorized it. Every moment that Nedwin survived increased the risk of an accidental infection. The worms had to burn, which meant he had to burn with them.

  It had been many years since Nedwin had feared death. He did not fear it now. The fire was not appealing. The blood promised fulfillment. He could smell it everywhere. The fire promised misery. He heard footfalls. Guards were coming. They were too late. Nedwin threw himself into the fire, squirming until he was settled at the heart of the flaming logs.

  Everything inside him recoiled. Every instinct screamed that he must flee. He was not in pain. The worms, maybe—not him. The fire was everywhere. Warm, not hot. It had seemed bright and horrible, but now he found it almost relaxing. He smelled it consuming him. His eyes were closed. He was not dying. He was already dead. This was just the end of his worn-out body. He had stayed sane through it all. Sane enough, at least. He had done his duty. He felt certain that Galloran would be proud of him, and the thought gave him comfort. He could no longer smell the burning. He could no longer hear the logs crackling. His hardships had ended. No pain would haunt this slumber. At long last, Nedwin rested.

  CHAPTER 33

  AN INTERRUPTED FEAST

  The first sensation was of raindrops sliding down his body. The fat drops were sparse at first. He felt where each one kissed his bare arms, legs, or torso, and where the residual water traveled afterward. As the drops fell faster, they lost all individuality, spattering against his exposed skin and flowing in rivulets toward his naked feet. At first his loincloth absorbed some of the water, but soon it became saturated.

  Next he became aware of the smells. The rain provided the dominant aroma, rich and humid, subtly shifting with the breeze and the intensity of the downpour. Lesser smells included wood smoke, wet stone, damp plants, and the beckoning allure of fresh blood. The layered scents were more vivid and intense than any sensory indulgence he had ever encountered. Was this how dogs experienced the world? He felt he could see with his nose.

  His hearing was worse. Still acceptable, but not quite as sharp, muddied by unnatural echoes. The overlapping reverberations from the pattering rain masked nearly all other sound.

  The pressure of the rope around his neck was constant, but it caused no pain. At least that had not changed.

  Despite the absence of pain, the rainfall was not pleasant. Not because of the cool temperature. The more alert his mind became, the more the feel and smell of the water bothered him, like taking a bite of rotten meat or sipping spoiled milk. It felt wrong, smelled wrong, unsanitary, unwholesome, unwelcome. He resisted the urge to squirm.

  Even with his eyes shut, Nedwin could feel that it was night. He breathed the moist air, unsure whether respiration remained necessary.

  Nedwin opened his eyes.

  He was dangling above the castle gate, strung up by his neck as an example for the kingdom to behold. They had not bothered to bind his hands or feet. No need, he supposed, when the man you were hanging was already dead. He felt a surge of triumph. He had died, but the goma worms he had swallowed while Copernum gloated had brought him back.

  Ingesting the worms had been a rash action. It placed the entire world in jeopardy. Then again, if Maldor was going to rule Lyrian, maybe a plague-ravaged nightmare was what he deserved.

  Nedwin had taken the worms from Ebera, just in case. Collecting rare specimens had been his main occupation for years. When he had been left alone with an infected corpse, he had found the temptation irresistible. He knew that none of his comrades would have approved, but the deadly sample had offered him a final, potent weapon to employ in the event of a worst-case scenario.

  As the wind rose, the rain lashed at him. His body swung in the darkness, the wet rope creaking. Grinding his teeth, he tried to ignore the foulness of the water. He traced the scar where Copernum’s sword had penetrated his chest. The worms had knitted it neatly, but his enemies had hung him too high for anyone to notice.

  If Maldor had already won, unleashing the plague would be a beguiling temptation. Many innocent people would die, but under the tyranny of Maldor those same innocents were already doomed. The plague would be merciful for many, and it would leave Maldor with nothing to rule.

  But Nedwin could not dwell on that line of thinking. He had to hope that Galloran would emerge victorious. He had to trust the prophecy. He had not taken measures to revive himself in order to destroy the world. He would be careful. He would use this second chance to accomplish a very specific objective.

  The night was dark, but his intuition insisted that it had not been dark for very long. Maybe the suspicion derived from the temperature of the storm. Maybe from the amount of heat radiating from the nearby stones of the castle wall. Maybe he was influenced by some nuance of the smell.

  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 woun
ds, 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.

  Dessert had not yet been served, but the feast had obviously been in progress for some time. Many of the lords in attendance looked like they had already eaten their fill. Bustling servants shuttled away empty trays and plates. A large fire blazed in the huge hearth.

  Nedwin could smell the food as never before. Beef, mutton, ham, chicken, turkey, and goose were present, with all their varied gravies, seasonings, and sauces. He smelled pea soup, chunky vegetable stew, mashed yams, fresh berries, pungent cheeses, buttered mushrooms, skewers of olives stuffed with garlic paste, and hunks of bread slowly growing stale.

  Despite the diverse scents discernible in greater detail than ever before, the food did not smell appetizing. Not in the slightest.

  All the aromas paled next to the intoxicating allure of fresh human blood.

  Tonight the feast was not on the tables or in the kitchens. Tonight the feast was inside the diners, pumping round and round, warm and liquid and beckoning.

  But Nedwin was not here to indulge his new appetite. No matter how brightly that desire burned, he must not heed it. He had a mission to accomplish.

  He quietly unpacked the spheres from his sack, then replaced them without the sawdust for easier access. He practiced how he would hold the sack and how he would remove the spheres.

  The secret entrance to the dining hall was concealed behind another tapestry, at the side of the room. It would not allow him to emerge near Copernum, but unless he was clumsy, it should be near enough.

  Nedwin could not afford to wait. He needed to strike while Copernum remained. What if the head traitor excused himself before dessert?

  Nedwin worked the releases and slid aside a cunningly constructed section of the stone wall. The section moved without much noise, disguised by boisterous conversation, clinking tableware, and hustling servants. The heavy tapestry still covered the gaping opening.

  Thrusting the tapestry aside, Nedwin stepped into the dining hall. The fire in the hearth bothered his eyes, but not enough to slow him down. Most of the armed guards were clustered near the main door. The first orantium globe sailed their way. The second went to a nearer table. Both globes exploded in rapid succession, with white flashes and thunderous booms that echoed in the cavernous hall. The guards were thrown in all directions. One man lost his helmet. The table bucked and splintered, platters of food soaring into the air. Diners
flipped and tumbled.

  Startled faces turned his way. Nedwin saw shocked recognition in most of their eyes. All had professed loyalty to him and the crown. Smiling, he produced another orantium globe, tossing it at the guards near the table where Copernum, Dolan, and the grand duke dined. The explosion devastated the guards and overturned the table.

  A quarrel hit Nedwin in the ribs. He observed it with mild interest. The projectile caused no pain and failed to hinder him. He rewarded the crossbowman for his accuracy with an orantium sphere that launched him, and others near him, into astonishing feats of acrobatics.

  Servants were scattering, making for the doors to the kitchen. Nedwin threw a sphere there next, to dissuade people from exiting.

  Some of the diners were pulling knives and drawing swords. Most were seeking cover. A hurled knife stuck in Nedwin’s thigh, causing no significant harm or discomfort.

  A group of nobles from the nearest tables charged Nedwin, forcing him to throw an orantium sphere closer than he liked. He felt the warm shockwave from the blast. The noise made his ears ring, and the flash left him dazzled. He staggered, but kept his feet. He could smell his own charred flesh.

  Nobody was attacking him anymore. Most were pressing toward the doors. Nedwin threw a globe at the main doors and another at the doors used by the servants. The blasts claimed many lives.

  “This is your reward for taking orders from a displacer!” Nedwin called, his voice strange in his ears. He threw a globe at some lords taking refuge behind an overturned table. A direct hit proved that orantium was much more powerful than wood.

  Men screamed and moaned. Smoke filled the air. Nedwin stalked toward the table where Copernum was huddled. Their eyes met across the room. Nedwin had never seen Copernum looking bewildered or afraid. Tonight he saw both emotions displayed nakedly.

  With three globes left, Nedwin hurled a sphere at another table where treacherous lords cringed. A few people were escaping out the doors. But not Copernum. Nedwin got close enough that he could not possibly miss, and demolished the table where Copernum cowered. Although it was heavier than the other tables, the orantium blasted it into kindling.