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Index Page Wynnderlan II This is death? I could not feel my limbs, only the spike of pain in my chest. I tired to draw a breath. Like a hammer hitting water-soft wood, my lungs convulsed once and seized in my chest. I arched up off the hard surface I lay on, suddenly desperate for air. Pain slammed through me. I thrashed, fighting to break up the solid matter that my lungs had become. Something broke loose and I retched. Congealing blood and foam came up with each heave of my frozen lungs. I gasped for breath, choking up fluid and clots of blood till I was exhausted, my throat a raw ruin. It was then, lying face down propped up on my elbows I realized I was naked and soaking wet; underneath me wet rock, sea water lapping about my legs. Over a low bluff the half moon hung like a swollen womb. I was in a sea cove, lying amongst the driftwood that littered the beach and bobbed in the low water, bone-white in the moonlight. I coughed once; a weak, wet cough that tore at my throat and made my stomach heave. My breath misted the air but I felt no cold. I looked down at my hands. Dead-white, like a corpse, the skin loose and flaccid. I bent my fingers. The skin pulled away from my hand, sliding off in a long swath. I stared, unable to feel either shock or revulsion. I turned my hands and scraped them along the stone. Thick, dead skin and flesh peeled away like cod under the dressers knife. A corpse. I was a rotting copse. My moan turned into a cough and I lay my forehead on the rock, fighting to still the spasm. Blood dribbled from my mouth, striping the white flesh of my arms. My scalp crawled, a sensation that brought to mind worms burrowing in soft earth. My senses rocked. The chill night air lifted me and carried me away. Water running into my nose brought me back. The tide was moving in. Clouds had moved to cover the moon, leaving the beach a mottled patchwork of rock and sand and driftwood. I moved my legs and felt returning sensation. All over my skin tingled with a deep almost painful prickling. I lifted my head and took a breath. The cold air burnt my raw throat. I fought the urge to cough. My dead white skin seemed to glow in the night. I raised my hand before my face. The skin was smooth and whole, no sign of a mark. Realization dawned and my blood froze. I stretched out both arms. Where they should have been torn and punctured with the teeth-marks of the dogs they were whole and untouched, pale in the returning moonlight. Patches of memory floated in my mind like moving fog...Frozen ground and blood, lantern light and echoing voices. Almost of their own violation, my fingers moved to my throat. Here too the skin was untouched where it should have been torn and gaping. In the uncertain light, I examined the rest of my body. Whole, unscathed. In parts dead skin was still peeling away as it had on my hands and arms, new skin showing brighter underneath. My hands went to my head and came away with a chunk of hair. I stared at the long dark strands dumbly. I opened my fingers and let them fall to the rock. Rising water run over it, working at carrying it away. Slowly, I stood. The breeze moved against me and there was a burning sensation over my shoulder blades; light and voices teased my memory, a presence I knew but now missed. It faded almost immediately, like a moment of dizziness one gets when rising from a bed, leaving me only with the huge and awful realization: I had been brought back from among the dead. ********************* Landercastle was a city older than the country that it resided in. Burnt and rebuilt, beset by plague and purged by religious massacre, it still moved and breathed, an ancient beast, older and wiser than time. The stone architecture had given way to brick and mortar as the centauries of plundering the material had left the land naked for miles and miles ‘round. Overlooking the city were the ruins of fortress Landercastle, the castle of kinds long dead, now only broken stone and tumbled walls. On this morning a heavy winter fog hung low over the city, pierced by steeples and bell towers, curling at the doorposts and sending long fingers swirling across the paved streets. My borrowed cloak was wet through, clinging to my skin in places the tunic did not cover. Carriage lamps bobbed in the mist, the rumble of wheels muted; the only near sounds were the drip of water and the thud of an axe. I passed the lower city summer-market, the stalls shuttered and silent. Beyond it the streets were like a rabbit warren, houses mixed among the shops and taverns. The mixed smells of smoke, wet brick, animal and sewer hung heavy. The window shutters on the second story of a smoke-stained building that housed an herbalist's shop on the first floor were raised and a cascade of descending water narrowly missed me. The pungent scent of herbs and spices momentarily wafted on the mist-heavy air. I glanced up. The herbalist's amber-eyed daughter met my gaze. She nodded in acknowledgment as our eyes met but there was no recognition in her gesture. I lowered my eyes, moving on down the street. Three turns and a dozen shops and ale houses later I arrived at the back of a white stone building. Two black cats with gold eyes watched me from the back steps. They rose and stretched as I climbed the steps and lifted the door latch. The hall lamps were still unlit. The cats slipped in behind me and made for the kitchen doorway. A weary scolding followed their entrance. The back stairs were narrow and dark but as familiar as my own face; the thought made me pause. The face I was familiar with was the face of Afon, pickpocket and petty thief. Not the face I had now. Not the face of a dead man awoken. A reanimated corpse. I raised reluctant fingers, running then along the jaw line of a face that was not my own. It had been a disorienting experience to look into the wavy mirror hanging over the basin in the farmer's cottage and see a stranger. Like a face seen in a dream and then forgotten, tantalizingly familiar though totally foreign. Every line had shifted slightly creating a completely new visage, yet retaining some evanescent tie to the Afon that had climbed the cliffs of Dungard la Roch. With the bald head of a mountain monk, I could not have been more unrecognizable. Deep in these thoughts I climbed the narrow stairs avoiding the loose and squeaky steps out of habit. The scarred door with the tarnished brass handle seemed a relic of the past but it had been a mere fortnight since I'd last closed the door behind me, that dark-destined night Hadyn and I had gone to rob a Barwn. I turned the knob and swing the door open. The room was empty. Bare floor boards collecting dust in the corners and overlaying the tiny window panes and sills. Stained ticking and a wooden bucket remained in the corner. As expected, Hadyn was long gone. I would have been truly disappointed in his good sense to have found him still in residence. I stepped back and closed the door, leaving the way I had come in, avoiding any contact with the others in the house. There would be no message left for me. Outside in the street it was already dark, shadowed by the buildings and overcast sky. The illogical streets lead me further into the warren. The houses became more ill-kept, their disreputable outsides matching the business transacted within. A boy in a ragged a velvet coat and ruffled jabot stood outside a coffeehouse as if waiting for his girl to finish her work for the evening. He glanced in my direction, passing me over with dark eyes, dismissing me. I had been a thief since I was old enough to dart through the busy streets, lifting ill-guarded purses and handkerchiefs; I knew my own kind. The young thief turned away to look in the window of the coffeehouse, like a fretful lover hoping to catch a glimpse of his girl. I knew the glass afforded a view of the street behind him. The streets became narrower and more confused, if such a thing were possible. Piles of offal blocked alleyways hardly wide enough for a child to run down. Three fat sparrows hopped and fluttered from roof top to rain gutter watching me with bright black eyes. They followed me down the narrow, refuse-filled gap between the backs of two houses and perched above the paint-peeling door, three steps off the street, hopping and bobbing as I knelt to inspect the lock. From my cloak pockets I took a pewter kitchen knife and the handle of a bottle brush, the top broken off; articles I'd secured for this anticipated need. I worked on the lock, listening to the sounds around me, careful of any noise from within the house. There was the flurry of wing beats very close and something light hit my shoulder. I turned to inspect the sparrow, perched inches from my face. It's tiny, scaly claws gripped my sodden cloak; it fluffed it's feathers, raising it's lower eyelids, regarding me from slitted eyes. I stared back, mildly surprised. The city sparrow's close proximity with humans did not tame them but rather made them all the more wary. As such, this behavior was entirely out of the ordinary. Perhaps this one was a tame sparrow, escaped or set loose. I moved my shoulder. The sparrow swayed and adjusted it's grip but did not take flight. I plucked it from my shoulder and set it aside. The first few drops of rain fell. The lock clicked open and I stood, the sparrows fluttering out of my way. Hadyn and I had worked with Renfrew in the past, even eaten with his family and lived in his home for a time when our own rooms had been under scrutiny. He could be trusted but I was not so sure of the thieves he worked with or whomever might be in temporary residence. I did not wish to been seen by anyone but Hadyn or Renfrew himself. The door opened into a dim, unswept hall. The raucous sounds of a game of chance came from the kitchen with the smell of baking fish and parsnip pie. I ignored it and made my way to what had been at one time the library. Now the shelves built for books held cloth-wrapped trinkets, waiting to be taken away on the morrow. Rugs heavy with dust and scarred wooden furniture filled the room. A large desk sat in a shadowy corner, it top bare but for a inkwell. I knew it would be empty, Renfrew kept no records of any kind. It begin to rain, streaking the dirty windowpanes and sending a damp draft from the chimney flue. Footsteps sounded in the hall and the door latch rattled. Renfrew entered and went directly to the shelves, picking up and unwrapping one of the smaller bundles. Some sense of my presence must have warned him for he looked up, glancing around the room. He started when he caught sight of me sitting behind the door. He turned, re-wrapping the soft-glowing strings of pearl. "Who the deuce are you?" he demanded. He approached, his eyes swiftly scanning the room for any sign I was not alone. I stood, removing my wet cloak and dropping it on a chair. "Afon?" Renfrew stared at me. Continue reading here. |