by Adam Watson
It made him feel alive, somehow reborn and regenerated anew. His eyes, they had been sealed shut, but now they were open. How was such a thing possible?
He wiped his face again and more silvery liquid appeared on his hands. He studied it for a moment and then the connection was made. It's this liquid that brought me back. He held out his hand and brought it closer to his face. He sniffed it. So sweet … so very sweet. He inhaled, taking the aroma deep into his lungs; as he did they seemed to spring back to life, invigorated. He closed his eyes as he savoured the sweetness. My sweet nectar. My sweet, sweet nectar.
“My sweet, life-giving NECATARRRR!” he bellowed out loud. He licked his hands and swallowed more remnants of the liquid and immediately felt stronger and more powerful. As excitement swelled, he began to rub his face vigorously, trying to get as much of the liquid off as he could. He licked his hands again and again as strength burst inside his body.
He could feel the power of the liquid travelling through his body, starting from within the core and then reaching out to the extremities. He could feel it flowing into his arms, giving them strength, invigorating them, regenerating them. This is it! This is my chance! How long this burst of strength would last he did not know, but he wasn't about to squander the opportunity.
He reached up with both hands and grasped the hilt that stuck out of his chest. He knew the sword was longer than his arms, he would have to heave it hard if he hoped to clear it from his body.
Focused and determined, he knew this would take all the strength he had. Every muscle in his body was tense, his teeth gritted, his eyes scrunched, the thought of what he was about to endure almost made him cry ... but he knew that he had to do it before the pain came back and crippled him into inaction. He inhaled deeply, summoning all the strength that he had left, and with one almighty heave, he threw the hilt before him.
Cold steel slid, slicing on its way out, renewing the streams of blood that flowed down his body. He had used all the strength he had in that moment, but even then, it had not been enough. The tip of the sword still poked out of his back, as the hilt end fell towards the ground. He dropped to his knees in renewed pain as the blade twisted inside of him. It's too much.
The pain felt like it had come back with a vengeance, darkness and white spots clouded his vision, he knew he had to act fast before he passed out. He quickly reached up again, grabbing the blade with both hands; it cut straight to the bone. He kept going though … there was no turning back now.
With the blood serving as a macabre lubricant he heaved the sword again. This time, there was minimal resistance and when it dropped to the ground, so did he.
Slumped on his side, pain held him in a paralysing grip; he feared he could lose consciousness at any moment. He moved his head slightly, he felt drowsy, as if he could go to sleep, but he dared not - for fear that he would never awaken.
He stared blankly ahead, struggling to keep his eyes open. His vision kept blurring and wouldn't stay in focus, it was hard even to make out what lay on the ground in front of him.
Darkness coming and going ... ‘Lord of Death’ looms over … awaiting my eyes to shut … to give me his embrace. He forced his eyes wide open, the thought had come from a memory forgotten, but whose memory was it?
The pain was easing now, but he felt the blood loss should surely have killed him. I should be dead. Yes, he should have been dead, and he knew it … yet he wasn't. There was something perverse and unnatural about that, something wasn't right, something didn't make sense.
He was alive, but he had no right to be. Had he succumb to the foul night, the consuming darkness that seeks to devour all men? Something was very wrong with all of this. Am I alive or am I dead? He wasn't completely sure. Have I been reanimated by the Creed? … Those foul demons … Have they brought me back to the world as an undead creature, to serve as their puppet, to be their slave? If that were his fate, then he would end it himself. It can't be. He was sure that if he were dead, it wouldn’t be this painful.
The pain may have been agonising, but it was also a comfort. It may have stopped him from sleeping, but it kept him alive. If he stayed still and didn't breathe too hard, he found that he could tolerate it … and that was enough for now.
Time passed, he wasn't sure how long; minutes perhaps, moments maybe … but definitely not hours. He was tired and drowsy, he battled to keep his eyes open. The pain had dimmed down to a constant ache, but now he felt weak - like an old man lying on his death bed.
His teeth were discoloured from the blood in his mouth, the dirt near his face drenched red. He felt as though a giant bird of prey was squeezing him tight in its talons. Death will be upon me soon. There didn't seem to be any way to avoid it. The only thing that saved me before was the … sweetness. The very thought cleared his mind.
“NECTAR!” he tried to shout it, to scream it as loud as he could, but the blood in his throat forced him to gag, making him cough and choke uncontrollably.
He lifted his head and looked around, scanning the area for that sweet, silvery goodness - it was the one and only thing that could possibly save him now.
He could see a book before him. Brown and leather bound, half torn, the pages scattered; black writing in a language he didn't understand laced the cover. To his right, he saw mounds of rubble, broken stone and dust. Nothing of interest, nothing of value. He knew it had to be close, he just prayed it wasn't behind him, the act of rolling over might very well kill him … again. To his left, he could see only dirt covered in blood, and he began to dismay. My sweet nectar is lost.
"NO!” He tried to scream but instead choked on more blood. He spat another mouthful of it out to clear his throat. “NEVER!” The thought of losing the nectar seemed to make him stronger, and he thrashed around trying to get some movement back into his limbs. It has to be here!
Somehow, he managed to roll onto his stomach despite the immense pain it caused - this was not the time for caution. Looking down, he could see that the chest wound was bleeding again. The damned thing didn't kill me before, he thought. It won't kill me now. I just have to fight through the pain. He began to push with his hands, willing strength into his arms. He could feel every muscle, every bone, every sinewy tendon strain under the pressure of his own body weight.
As he pushed, he glanced down at his hands; he could see the raw flesh and white bones of what used to be his fingers. The sight brought back a pain renewed, and he writhed in the bloody mud.
He looked back up, vowing to not look down again. As he pushed, his body shook and shuddered, his hands screamed an agonising chorus, his muscles strained, and with the most tremendous of efforts, he managed to get himself back up to his hands and knees.
He felt so tired and so weak, he just wanted to quit and surrender to the night, but every time he thought he would, his mind would drown the thoughts with memories of the nectar. Yes, the nectar will bring me back. He just had to find it.
His arms shook under the weight of his body, his knees trembled. His armour and uniform no longer provided protection but had instead become an encumbrance. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, if he could find the nectar his strength would return and all of his burdens would disappear.
It has to be here somewhere. He scanned the rubble again, which was proving difficult. He couldn't concentrate, his head was swimming and his eyes kept going in and out of focus. He made his body crawl forward and hoped that he would somehow stumble upon the sweetness - a sweetness that would give him back his life.
His right greave was missing, and he could feel his knee digging into the rubble as he crawled. His left greave had become like his cuirass, more of a burden than a help as it kept catching on the broken stone.
The catching and the pain was a volatile mix. Every movement forward was a struggle, every inch a torment, but even so, he smiled … for the first time since consciousness, he smiled. He felt stronger and more alive now that he had started crawling … and he dare not stop.
; Heh, heh, heh, you think you can defeat me? You think you can break me? THINK AGAIN!! He conversed in his mind, but with whom no-one could say. He started sniggering madly as he crawled amongst the ruined tower. This is funny! This is a good joke! Broken stone and wood dug into his hands. You jest, surely you jest! It hurt so bad, but somehow the situation amused him. You think you can hide the nectar from me? He burst out laughing, like a crazed maniac.
“Then the fool you are, nothing will keep me from my nectar!” When he realised what he was doing, he stopped and reigned himself in. Don't lose it! he thought, reprimanding himself. You're so close, don't lose your mind now. He took a moment to gather his bearings. He needed to focus, to concentrate, to think about what he was doing … and to find that damned nectar before his mind transcended into madness.
He sat up and put his hands to his temples, rubbing them slowly, trying to clear his head. I'll never find it. He looked around, rubble and debris surrounded him in all directions. It could be anywhere. It could be completely buried. Dark thoughts descended into his mind and fury built, he was red and shaking with rage. NO! … No! Calm down … must be calm. He took a small breath, stared straight ahead and then … there was tranquillity.
Colour drained from his vision and everything turned shades of grey. There was peace, there was focus; somehow the important things were becoming clearer as the unimportant things purged themselves from his vision.
Wherever he looked, whatever he focused on, it seemed to jump out at him. He tried to focus only on the nectar, envisioning it in his mind and when he did, the world went darker.
His mind expunged from his vision all that was trifling, leaving only the vital to stand out. Looking from left to right, he scanned the area but could see nothing. He scanned further still, and then further … and there it was, not even ten yards away from him, glowing bright orange, like a beacon in the night … THE NECTAR!
As soon as his mind had found what he sought, the darkness went, and colour returned to his vision. The orange glow was gone, now he could just see the silvery splash on the dusty ground.
He scrambled down the mound like a rabid dog, ignoring the pain and baring his blood-stained teeth. In seconds he was there, guarding over his precious silver oasis; leaving behind him a ragged trail of red.
He looked around to make sure no-one was near, and no-one was. He could see people fighting each other in the distance, but the collapsed tower had wiped out everyone and everything in the near vicinity … everyone except for him. He smiled, he was alone with the nectar now, and that's all that mattered.
Looking down at the broken bottle he spied the small pool of silvery liquid. Only the bottom half of the bottle remained; luckily it still sat upright or all of the liquid would have been lost … he would have been lost.
He picked the bottle up, he wanted to ram it into his mouth and devour every drop, but he knew that he couldn't. This liquid was precious, and it could not be wasted. He dipped the very tip of his tongue in, just enough to get a few drops, then brought it into his mouth where he could finally swallow and savour the sweet, sweet goodness.
Once again strength and vigour coursed through his veins, muscles and tendons. He felt like even his bones had grown stronger and could bear weight once more. He dipped his tongue in again and carefully administered droplets to his poor shredded fingers, a strange steam poured off of them as they regenerated anew.
Another dip, another swallow and he felt he was ready for the next step. He carefully placed the bottle on the ground and stood up. It felt good to be finally standing upright; he was still shaky, but he knew what he had to do.
The first thing that needed to go was the belt. He undid it and hurled it away. Next was the tabard, over his head it went and then to the ground.
Pain coming back. Stretching his arms so far had aggravated his chest wound. He kneeled over in pain and looked toward the tabard; red and black with three golden lions. The heraldry meant nothing to him; he had no idea whose tabard it was or what it stood for.
He must have been a soldier or a guard, though he had no memory of it. There was a battle going on nearby and he was wearing armour; he supposed he had been part of that battle. I guess I lost, he thought, looking down at his wound. Or did I? He was still alive after all, his enemies failing to factor in the nectar. He didn’t know who had done this to him, but he knew that someone was going to pay dearly for it.
What madness is this? he thought, when he realised that he wore neither gauntlets, vambraces nor pauldrons. Bare arms? Bare shoulders? Why would I fight for a Lord who provided so little armour? It baffled and angered him. All he wore was a cuirass and a greave on each shin; one of which was now missing. No mail, no leather, no chain … yes, he was wearing leather shoes, but what good were they when the rest of his body remained unclad. He shook his head in disgust, the Lord he fought for was a fool … and this fool had gotten him killed.
He stumbled a few paces back to where the sword lay, being careful not to lose sight of the nectar. He leant down and picked up the blood-soaked steel. He would have preferred a dagger for this task, but he didn't have one of those either. No bow and arrow, no crossbow, no knives, no shield! By the gods, this Lord was a fool! All he had was the sword, and even that probably wasn't his … at least he hoped it wasn't his. What kind of soldier gets killed by his own sword? ‘An inept one,’ whispered a voice in his mind. Yes, very inept indeed.
He manoeuvred the blade so that he could cut the leather straps holding the cuirass together. It was awkward as the blade was much longer than he would have liked, but he persevered, and eventually it fell to the ground.
Out of pure relief, he dropped to his knees, just losing the weight of the armour was a huge improvement. Free at last. He could move easier now.
He crawled forward staring at the nectar. He could smell it, and the sweet aroma invigorated him as it filled his nostrils. Be calm, he told himself. Just be calm. He was shaking all over, he wanted to devour it like a madman, to consume it without thought … but if he did that then he would surely die. Don't you dare waste it.
He picked up the bottle, the silvery liquid glistened in the sun. He stared into it, desperately hoping it would reveal its secrets to him. This is my only chance to live, he thought, contemplating the possibilities. If this doesn't work ... it will be the end. He leant back, exposing his wound to the sky. Gods help me. He poured the remaining liquid into the chest wound.
The feeling was a harsh mixture of agony and ecstasy, the pain of an open wound being splashed with fire … but it was a fire that healed, a fire that empowered. He cried out.
"Aaaaaahhhhh!" Clutching his chest, he thrashed about, steam billowing out from the wound. This was it, he was going to make it. He could feel it, the sweet silvery liquid repairing the damage, the wound closing over. By the gods it hurt, but it felt so good. The pain ... The pleasure ... THE POWER!
He didn't know who he was, he didn't know how he had got there, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered. He got up and started walking. Someone's going to pay for the pain I have endured. There were so many questions, but no answers here.
He could see a place in his mind's eye, he did not know this place or where it was, but he could feel it. Somehow he knew that this was the right direction, and so he continued to walk. Yes ... this felt right, so very right; he smiled. Keep walking, I will have my answers yet.
11. AIDEN: A NEW BEGINNING
In the twilight darkness, the coach rocked from side to side. Rolling along the dusty road, it creaked and groaned, but despite the fragile impression, the coach was, in fact, very sturdy. When it's rickety wheel hit an unseen rock, it took it in its stride, not slowing down one bit, but the resulting jolt was violent enough to wake Greegan from his slumber.
There was a time, not too long ago, when Greegan would have raged like a bee-stung bear after being awakened so rudely, but broken sleep was almost a way of life now - he had not had a full nights rest since that day, five
weeks ago, beneath Warehouse 12.
Now he was plagued by nightmares and voices in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was a vision of the axe going through his brother’s head. I had to do it. If he hadn't, they'd both be dead right now. 'You only did it to save yourself.' Would the voices in his mind ever cease? Greegan thought back to what had happened after the cavern.
They had walked back through the tunnel. This time there was no mist, no darkness, just a clearly defined and visible passageway. When they had emerged from Warehouse 12, two weeks had passed - that was odd, very odd, it had only seemed like a couple of days.
They went back to the City Hall where they received their reward and promptly spent half of it over the next two days - just celebrating the fact that they were still alive.
Whilst the brothers celebrated this victory, the authorities down at the port carried out an investigation beneath the warehouse. It was found that the old man that Greegan had killed was, in fact, a warlock. He had been using the cavern both as a shrine to Chtbanka - the Rat God, and as a makeshift laboratory where he appeared to be experimenting in both the alchemical and medicinal disciplines.
The investigators surmised that whenever anybody went down into the cavern, the warlock would use a toxic incense to create a noxious cloud. The poison in the cloud would put the victim in a trance-like state and cause intense hallucinations.
Whilst the victims remained in their hypnotic stupor, the warlock would kill them and then dedicate their souls to Chtbanka in a ritual sacrifice. The investigators found a handwritten account of such in a book by the warlock’s bedside.
The methodical rocking of the coach was sending Greegan back to sleep again. He glanced outside for a moment, it looked the same as it did the last time he looked - dark and gloomy. He closed his eyes, there was still a long way to go.
