Chapter Nine: On the Brink
(Note: This is not official version and may be removed in the near future. This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter. I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that. This novel has since been rewritten.) James quickly came to realize that he had not entered into the same sort of paralysis he had when Dulien had spoken to him. Even so, voices rose up inside his mind and his vision went from clear as day to dismally blurry. He could see a flurry of figures, moving so fast he started to think that time was either passing him by at an alarming rate, or skipping like a rock on the water. From moment to moment, depending on the pattern of his vision, he could hear voices spoken from the real world, but before he could make out what was being said, the world of chattering entities drew him back into the fray. There were so many voices. He couldn’t focus on any one of them. Some were male, some female, and some even inhuman. Together they formed a loud, animalistic roar, all begging for his attention. He dared not focus, but for reasons he couldn’t be sure. A deep yearning inside his very person wanted to speak and mold with those within his mind, converse with them, but his mind fought against it as if it knew that nothing good would come of it. If he tried, his mind resisted, forbidding him from doing anything it disapproved of. He could only assume that this side of him represented logic, his logic. His vision faded back into the real world again. A scene played out before him, as if from a movie he had once seen. Triska and Pea—as best he could tell from their blurred appearance—spoke over him in sharp whispers. “A lyphon,” Triska said, her voice warbled. “Here? How?” “I don’t know,” Pea said. Then the scene continued, muffled beyond his recognition, until it finally receded as his vision phased out again. His mind felt utterly cluttered, as if he could focus on nothing. He started to sense that he was moving, up and down, up and down, in a swing-like fashion. It was dizzying. Pulses of sound, as if someone were barking orders through water, overcame the voices. He was not grateful, though, as the pulses furthered the nauseating dizziness. His vision returned to the real world, now a different scene. Someone, a woman, crouched over him, her giant eyes hovering inches from his face and her twisted nose nearly touched his lips. He couldn’t feel her, but in his hazy vision could make out the wiry hair that ran along her ears and down her neck, ghostly white. “Virnum,” she said, and then the scene passed away and he found himself back amongst the voices, the throbbing, and the pulsing. A flash of light filled the foggy world, and, to his delight, he found himself slipping from the state of paralysis and into a deep, rejuvenating, and altogether amazing sleep. When James broke away from the nothingness of his dreams he was overcome with pain unlike any he had ever felt before. Searing, agonizing, and unrelenting pain that made it altogether impossible to determine the origin. His head hurt. His body hurt. Even his jaw muscles hurt, preventing him from groaning or making any unnecessary motion that might trigger further pain—though he couldn’t fathom any pain more excruciating. While his eyes were in working order, he was unable to truly make out his surroundings. The room seemed…different. He couldn’t quite explain it, partly because the pain prevented him from focusing fully on any one thing at a time. Eventually he managed a tiny cry. Inside he cheered at the monumental feat. The wiry-haired woman from before appeared, poking her head into his field of vision like a giant bird. She eyed him; he tried to look back. Then in a tiny, whispery voice she said, “Virnum,” and the pain subside enough so he could bear it. He finally managed to see the features of her face. She had a long, thin face that forced her mouth to look as if it were constantly wording an ‘o’. Her skin was darker than his, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of her race or from exposure to the sun. For clothes she wore a pair of tattered robes over a supertunic that failed to hide her worn and beaten body from years of age and hard use. The robes were burned at the edges of the sleeves. She has lived a long, hard life, he thought. The woman walked away to a nearby table where she poised herself over a stone jigsaw puzzle. James felt ignored, but thankful nonetheless that he could now manage to move with only minor discomfort. The pain had gone from unbearable to livable. He hoped it would go away completely. Sitting up, he took in his surroundings. He was no longer in the dining floor of the keep within the Lord’s Hold. Rather he had been taken during his slumber to a small, yet cozy little room with one window next to a shining iron door opposite where the wiry-haired woman mused over her puzzle. He shook his head to find that the darkness still prevailed outside. The room itself was lit by several enormous candles twice as large as his arm, irregular numbers of wicks stuck into them—nine, four, seven, twelve, and more. The stone walls were covered in framed paintings of armor clad soldiers, noblemen, and gryphons. Among the furniture were two round tables, a pair of gold-lace covered rocking chairs that looked comfortable enough to make even the most raggedy old person feel at home, and two straw beds—one of which he lay in, covered in three layers of quilted blankets. Other than the wiry-haired woman, he was alone. “Where am I?”