Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

I should not have eaten that morning. Something poisoned me—something among my rations, I guessed, most probably the dried meat. I was surprised that I had not been alerted by its smell, and blamed myself for carelessness. It was only much later that I came to suspect some inattention on my own part that might have left a minute residue of poison on my own fingers after handling the vials I carried everywhere.

The first cramps, no more than mildly uncomfortable, hit me a few hours later, before I set off down the steep slope and while Derek was still with me. I foolishly ignored them, anticipating that they would soon fade away. Instead, they increased, both in intensity and in frequency, so that by the time I was halfway down towards the camp below I was in agony and violently sick. I could barely control my descent on the almost precipitous hillside and only narrowly escaped falling to my death when my foot slipped while I was bent over, trying not to retch. I fell forward, head over heels, unable to react in any way to stop myself. A projecting spur of rock arrested me less than two paces from a vertical drop, and I lay there clutching at the stone for a long time before I had sufficient strength to raise my head and look about me. My vision was swimming; everything slid away from me sideways when I Cried to focus. And then I dragged myself to a depression between two clumps of long, rank grass, where I lay gasping until my vision settled.

There was not much cover available; the hillside was open and exposed to anyone who glanced up from below. Even had I been unimpaired, the progress I had planned on making would have been slow, much of it achieved by lying flat on my belly and slinking from clump to clump of grass and stones like an adder. Now, with the excruciating pains in my stomach and ribs, the roaring in my ears and the blurred vision, along with the constant retching, progress became impossible and I had no choice but to remain where I was, in the relative security of the hollow. I could see a thick clump of bushes not far below me, but to reach them, I would have to negotiate the small cliff I had almost fallen over, and I knew I could not even contemplate such a move until I had regained some control of my spasming muscles. I began to feel lightheaded, and shortly after that I broke out in a clammy sweat that soon soaked my clothing. Then it seemed to me I drifted in and out of awareness for a time.

In the infrequent intervals of clarity I had, I would. giggle inanely, knowing that I, the great poisoner, had somehow poisoned myself. And now here I lay, on an open hillside above a crew of men who would skin me alive if they found me and knew who I was. I knew my mind was disordered by what was happening to me, and a large, sane part of me was appalled by my own mindless laughter. Then I was overtaken by a surge of nausea that left me exhausted and panting for breath, and in its aftermath, I passed out.

I awoke some time later to the feeling of rain on my face, and I felt slightly better; well enough, in fact, to move on down the hill. But I was extremely weak and still lightheaded, and I could hear myself making too much noise as I staggered and reeled downwards. They say the ancient gods protected fools, children and drunkards; someone protected me that afternoon on all three of those grounds, for I had been a fool, I was as weak as a child, and I fell and reeled like a drunkard.

The rain grew heavier, falling from low, heavy bellied clouds that clung as fog to the steep slopes; it was a gift to me, obscuring my movements, and I made my way down to the bottom without further mishap and without attracting attention. Once there, however; I collapsed again, my; body racked by painful, heaving spasms that produced nothing from my stomach but agony and bitter tasting bile. I could feel the sweat pouring from me and I knew I was running a fever.

When next I became aware, it was dark, the rain had stopped, and I could hear voices not far from where I lay I had no knowledge of where I actually was, in relationship to the point where I had intended to arrive, and I thought! the voices were Celtic, but in my intermittent moments of clear headedness I thought I might merely have dreamed of understanding them. I had visions of huge, blond haired, axe carrying Danes with bullhorns on their helmets, conversing fluently with me in my own tongue, and I knew I was raving. I also knew that I was cold, and as though detached from my own body, I pictured myself emerging from the bushes that screened me, to crawl forward on all] fours towards the beckoning light of the fires that I knew must be burning close by, where I would beg, in suicidal Latin, to be allowed to warm myself and sleep. Instead, I hugged myself more tightly, shivering and shuddering, and eventually I must have fallen asleep.

I knew nothing more until someone prodded me with an ungentle toe. My eyes snapped open to daylight and I was face down in a clump of long, rough grass, fully aware and knowing I had been discovered. I cursed and tried to scramble to my feet, but snatching fingers grasped my hair, pulling my head back and baring my neck. I felt a knee against my side, and I was heaved backwards and flipped over to land on a sharp pointed stone that smashed between my shoulders. I saw an unkempt form leaning above me with a dagger poised to strike, and I closed my eyes, knowing there was nothing I could do to save myself. And then I heard my name, uttered in a gasp of stunned surprise. Moments later I felt myself grasped beneath the shoulders, and then I was being dragged. When the movement stopped, I felt myself being raised to a sitting position, my back against a tree or a stone, and soon I became aware of someone crouching close to me.

I opened my eyes and recognized Turoc the ploughman, a Christian Celt from Cornwall who had come to Camulod the year I brought Cassandra home. He was one of the eight spies I had dispatched personally, months earlier, to penetrate Cornwall and discover what was happening with Ironhair. Now he kneeled in front of me, peering anxiously into my face. I managed to say his name and his eyes widened with relief.

"Merlyn, in God's name what are you doing here? I almost killed you. My dagger was on its way down when I recognized you. What's wrong with you, and why are you here? You're a dead man if anyone else sees you. "

"Sick, " I whispered. "Poisoned. Ate something bad, yesterday. "

"Shit! Can you walk?"

I shook my head. "Don't know, Turoc. I don't think so. I'm fevered. "

He sat up straighter and looked all around, barking a short, sharp grunt that was almost a cough. "Well, there's nobody around. " He glanced back down at me. "You're frozen and your clothes are soaked. I'd better get something: for you to wear and see if I can find something hot for you to eat. That'll be a miracle, but there might be something left of last night's stew, even if it's no more than a cup of broth. Wait you here and don't move. No one will see you if you stay just where you are. If I can find some food, I'll have to heat it over a fire, so I may be gone for a while. Meanwhile, let's get you out of those wet clothes and wrap; you in this."

He loosened the voluminous cloak he wore over his shoulders, then moved quickly to strip off my clothes before wrapping me in the cloak.

"At least it's dry," he grunted. "Nothing I can do about the smell of it." It smelled wonderful: dry and warm and filled with the tang of woodsmoke. He was wrapping my own clothing in a bundle, using my tunic as a bag. "I'll spread these by the fire in my own spot. I've been here for more than a month, so that gives me a certain privilege. I've! managed to clear a space of my own. Now wait here and be still. I'll be back as soon as I can."

I watched Him as he moved away, walking openly into the morning light with my clothes bundled beneath his arm, and then I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the dry, rough warmth of his cloak. Turoc had stripped me naked without remarking on the marks and lesions on my skin, but then I thought of how my sick, fevered body must have looked to him; the dead, whitening areas would have seemed like an effect of the icy chill that had sapped my strength and vitality.