Chasing the Prophecy (Beyonders) (107 page)

After pocketing the handkerchief, Nedwin shut and locked the door. Pulling a rope and grapnel from his pack, he crossed to the window. Using tools belonging to Nicholas, Nedwin had fashioned the grapnel himself for this very purpose, sizing it to grasp the desired balustrade. His life would depend on it.

Setting the grapnel aside for a moment, Nedwin checked his three crossbows—two small, one large—all excellent weapons designed and crafted by Nicholas and his niece. He knew from experience that the small bows would fling their quarrels with astonishing velocity for their size. The larger bow could be fired twice, as it held a pair of quarrels. All three bows were loaded and ready. He strapped them into handy positions on his body. If a shot was not fatal, the substance on the tips of the quarrels would leave a man unconscious in seconds.

Opening the window, Nedwin gazed at the balcony of the royal tower, above him and separated by a wide gap of empty space. Too high to reach from the ground, the balcony was only available from this solitary window. Leaning out, Nedwin could see the kennels.

He took a deep, steadying breath. He would have to be quick. He had no room for error. There was no guard on the balcony, but at least two awaited inside. The balcony was three floors below Copernum. If he failed to dispatch the guards silently, the endeavor would fail. If the guards reached the balcony before him, he was a dead man.

This maneuver was risky. It was by far the greatest risk he would take tonight, the price he had to pay for access to a very cautious man. Hefting a crossbow, Nedwin aimed at the kennels and fired. Out and down the quarrel flew, finally thumping against wood.

As he desired, the dogs started barking. Grapnel in hand,
Nedwin climbed onto the windowsill. The barking dogs might offer some cover for the upcoming clamor. Nedwin threw the grapnel and leaped from the ledge before knowing whether it would catch.

As Nedwin fell through the darkness, the grapnel pulled the rope higher, using up the slack. He took solace that the throw had felt true. Somewhere above him the grapnel clanged against the balcony. Even masked by the barking dogs, the noise of the grapnel seemed to rival an orantium blast. The rope jerked taut as the metal claw took hold of the balustrade.

Instead of free-falling, Nedwin was now swinging toward the tower. The balcony projected far enough that he had some upswing before reaching the wall. Nedwin extended his legs to absorb the impact. It felt like he had jumped off a roof but had landed well. As he swung back away from the wall, he was already climbing.

The grappling hook had a good grip. He had kept hold of the rope. He had not fallen and splattered against the paving stones of the courtyard more than fifty feet below. Now it was a race.

Hand over hand he ascended—long smooth pulls. For his height he was not a heavy man, and his gangly arms had more strength in them than some might expect. Few men could climb a rope faster. But would he reach the top fast enough?

Nedwin heard the door to the balcony open. He could not panic. He was almost there. Hurried footsteps approached the end of the balcony. The guard had clearly seen the grapnel and was rushing to investigate. He had not called out a warning. Nedwin had five more feet to go. From the sound of the footsteps, the guard would reach the grappling hook just before Nedwin reached the top. If the guard kicked the grapnel, Nedwin would die. If the guard looked over the edge, he might have a chance.

When the guard looked over the edge, Nedwin reached up, grasped him by the collar, and yanked with everything he had. The unprepared guardsman came over the railing and plunged headfirst to the courtyard. He did not cry out, but he landed loudly. The dogs barked with renewed vigor.

With a small crossbow ready, Nedwin climbed over the balustrade. The door stood open. He heard another man coming. The instant the guard appeared, he received a quarrel in his heart from ten feet away. Nedwin closed the distance and covered the man’s mouth as he slumped into oblivion.

His next crossbow ready, Nedwin entered the room. No other guards presented themselves. He knew the layout and quickly confirmed that no other soldiers were stationed on this floor of the apartment. He listened. There would be guards outside the main door to this room. There would probably be a guard or two immediately outside of Copernum’s bedroom door. In spite of this, Nedwin heard nobody responding.

He had to hurry. If anyone tried to check in with the guards he had eliminated, his cover would be blown. He raced to the fireplace, where embers glowed at the hearts of charred logs.

The chimney extended down to other levels, but layers of iron bars had been inserted below this point to forbid access. The last time Nedwin had checked, no bars prevented upward access from here. This floor was part of the royal residence.

Ducking into the warm fireplace, Nedwin climbed. Copernum had once sent an assassin to kill Jason. The assassin had accessed his room through the fireplace. Nedwin could not help smiling as he reached the royal bedchamber.

Copernum was asleep. Nedwin could hear him breathing. Listening intently, he detected nobody else in the room. Avoiding embers, Nedwin crept silently from the enormous fireplace.

Alarms would sound when the dead guard was discovered in the courtyard. The yowling dogs could summon alert eyes to the scene at any moment. A million other factors could lead to the discovery of his intrusion. He did not have much time.

On light feet, by the faint glow from the fireplace, Nedwin crossed to the bed. His hair mussed, Copernum slept with his mouth open. His neck looked scrawny. A strong blow from the short sword might cut all the way through.

Copernum had personally tortured Nedwin throughout the final years of his incarceration. The chancellor had experimented with nervesong much more than any of the other torturers, lifting Nedwin to excruciating plateaus of agony. Nedwin frequently relived those experiences in his nightmares. Last night, in fact, Copernum had supervised the festivities.

Nedwin had dreamed of giving Copernum a dose of nervesong. He carried some in one of the vials around his neck. He had fantasized about letting his tormentor sample the anguish he had administered so liberally.

But tonight was not about vengeance. Tonight was about justice. Any extra time he took might get him caught. Nedwin did not belong to himself. He belonged to Galloran.

Nedwin did not need Copernum to know who was dealing the death blow. Nedwin did not need to see the recognition and terror in his eyes. It was enough to anonymously bring the traitor to justice. One swift stroke. A more merciful death than Copernum deserved. But it would suffice.

Nedwin drew the sword. It rasped faintly while escaping from the sheath. Copernum mumbled and shifted slightly. Nedwin raised the weapon high and brought it down hard.

The sharp blade sliced through the scrawny neck. Nedwin did not pause to relish the success. It was simply a mission accomplished.
He moved away from the bed, back toward the fireplace. But then he paused.

The sword was sharp and heavy. Almost a cleaver. And Copernum had a skinny neck. But the neck had bones and muscle and tendons. The blade had cut through too cleanly. And why had there been no blood?

When Nedwin turned back, the body was leaning over the far side of the bed. There was still no blood. The severed head remained on the pillow, glaring at him. It was not an expression that had frozen on the face at the moment of the execution. The traitor was clearly still alive.

Copernum was a displacer! No wonder the head had separated so neatly! The knowledge stunned Nedwin. The secret had been kept perfectly. Yet there was the proof, a decapitated head that clearly remained alert.

Raising his short sword again, Nedwin charged the bed. The headless body turned, lunged, and plunged a sword into him. Nedwin staggered back, falling to the floor. Copernum must have kept the sword by his bedside. There was no mistaking that the wound was fatal. It didn’t hurt, but he was going to die.

The body reclaimed the head, and Copernum came to stand over him, his eyes narrow. “That was very foolish, Nedwin.” He rubbed his neck. “You could have injured me. Fortunately, I have a few secrets. It will take a better man than you to claim my life. Revenge is an ugly business, Nedwin, as you are aptly demonstrating.”

“Justice,” Nedwin managed. At any moment he would pass out. He clung to his awareness.

“Justice, you say? Yes, you learned much about the emperor’s justice at my hands. I would love to give you another taste of justice. Or why just a taste, when we could have a feast? We used to have such times, the two of us.”

Hands trembling, Nedwin produced a vial from around his neck. He swiftly uncapped it, raised it to his lips, and upended it, swallowing the contents.

“No need to poison yourself,” Copernum chuckled. “You have escaped me. Your wound is plainly lethal. This time death will have to be justice enough. It would have been more entertaining to take you alive, but I can still make an example of you.”

Nedwin tried to reply, but his voice would not cooperate. There was still no pain, but his vision was dimming, and he could hardly breathe. Copernum continued to talk, the words unintelligible, like a low conversation heard through a thick door. An irrelevant conversation, Nedwin realized. He had failed. He closed his eyes. No! What if he got up? What if he found the strength to pull the sword from his body? What if he used it to strike down the traitor? Maybe Copernum would finally stop talking. The man had always talked too much, especially during torture.

Nedwin tried to sit up. He could not even raise his head! He tried to swallow, but his throat was not working. He could not open his eyes. He seemed disconnected from his body. Where was he? Oh, yes. The royal bedchamber. He had failed. He was dying. So this was what it felt like. He wondered what would come next. While Copernum droned on, he painlessly slipped away.

CHAPTER
31

T
ark trudged toward his tent, a steaming bowl of stew cradled in one arm. No longer stationed inside East Keep, he now slept near the shore of Lake Fellion with Ferrin and several others who had worked around the clock to learn the secrets of the lost mine hidden below the water.

After entering his makeshift home, Tark sat and blew across the surface of his stew. He dipped his spoon and tried a tentative sip. It would not do for him to burn his tongue and ruin the taste of his final supper. With the armies of Maldor poised to arrive sometime tomorrow, the cook had included extra meat, vegetables, and seasonings.

Most men who understood anything about the coming battle believed that tonight would be their last. They had no idea that tomorrow morning Galloran would initiate a massive retreat. If Tark succeeded in his task, most of the host Galloran had assembled should survive.

Tark sipped the salty broth. Whether he succeeded or failed in the mine tomorrow, he would not see another sunset. He had paused to ponder that thought on the way to his tent, gazing
westward, appreciating the red highlights on the distant clouds as seldom before.

The exploration of the lake had succeeded. They knew where the mine was located. Ferrin had scouted it and given extensive details on where to find the sealed portion of the tunnels. All that remained was for Tark to follow the instructions, unseal the closed section, and cause an explosion like Lyrian had never known.

His third bite of stew contained some meat and onion and required some chewing. He had tasted better stew, but not often. As his farewell supper it would suffice. How was he supposed to make up for all the meals he would never eat during a single sitting? The idea was ludicrous. It was enough to enjoy a simple stew while contemplating his upcoming assignment and all it would mean to so many.

He heard the conversation begin in the tent beside him without heeding the words. It was not common to overhear conversations in Ferrin’s tent. Unless engaged in a scouting mission or a strategy session, the displacer kept to himself these days.

“I want an explanation” were the first words from Ferrin that made Tark start paying attention.