The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Kira shivered through the bitter night air which wrapped itself around her as she trudged across the wet grass. The unflinching guards bruised their fingers deep into her arms as they dragged her through the thick dew. It soaked into her miserable boots and stole the meagre heat from her wrinkled toes.

A low mist clung to the shrubs and trees nearby, disguising the sharp outlines of the ornate formal gardens as they blurred and merged into the untamed wildness of the graveyard on the far side of the bridge.

The flickering orange of the guards’ torches around her made little impact on the dense, uncaring darkness of the bleak night.

No doubt they had brought her to such an unkempt, isolated place so that she could be buried immediately after the execution, and forgotten forever - lost in the grasses and the moss, cloaked beneath the living soil.

Ellis lumbered along just behind. The sound of his footfall was close enough to offer a murmur of solace - but also etched prickles of taunting despair through her, with the sad knowledge that he too was about to share the same wretched ending as her.

Her steps patted across the uneven cobbles of the arched bridge.

Overhead, the careless drifting clouds threatened to obscure the vast blackness of the sky - even the Moon had chosen to forsake her and withdraw its purity and comfort, hiding behind the vagrant misty pall.

Only the occasional tiny bright specks of light still peeked and glinted down through the shrouding gloom and offered the reassurance of their steadfast presence. A tender, quivering hope ran through her - perhaps the terrible crimes of their executions would not be performed while the inquisitive stars gazed down in witness for all eternity?

The muffled, murmuring conversations of Caldor and the others blended with the clatter of their boots as they crossed the bridge further back behind her.

To her left, one of the guards stumbled and fell to the ground. His torch guttered briefly, then failed in the rough wet undergrowth.

Her escorts did not waver in their pace; perhaps they had not even noticed this event, but pressed forward remorselessly to the place of her execution.

Her curious eyes peered out into the thick, midnight air. Agitated shadows sped and flittered in the swirling gloom and mist, low between the grave-markers around the outer edges of the site - too large to be animals or owls hunting for a feast.

A nervous stab of fear crawled through her stomach; anxious goosebumps vibrated along her arms.

She had seen that rapid blur of swiftness before - during the fight in the intense heat of the Reevers’ chamber.

A sudden disturbance of the dark air rushed past behind her.

The tight grip on her left arm fell loose. A slow hiss of bloodied breath escaped from the guard’s neck as he collapsed to the ground by her side.

She tried to scream, but the constrictive cloth around her face muted her voice and prevented her horror from alerting the others.

The clenched pressure on her right arm relaxed as the guard stared at his fallen companion.

“We are attacked!” he cried out as he let go of her and unsheathed his sword.

A sharp series of yells pierced the hushed stillness of the night; several more guards shouted their final, painful breath and fell; she shuddered in the sudden, breathless silence; the loudest sound was the fear pounding through her own heart.

Her second guard vanished into the looming shadows.

She turned sharply and scanned for Ellis. The dark outlines of his escorts lay motionless in the grass. She sprinted towards him, determined that he should escape the deadly menace which surrounded the group.

Her legs jolted on the soft turf; the ropes burned tighter into her wrists; the gag dug deeper across her face and clogged her ragged breath.

The fast flickering outline of a Reever loomed up behind Ellis. She tried to shout, but the cloth muzzle refused her screams.

The shadowy arms of the Reever stretched out to encompass and snatch Ellis.

She sped full pelt at the Reever and barged her shoulder hard into him; they sprawled to the wet turf and propelled Ellis forward. The friction of the thudding tussle gripped at the cloth around her face - it nipped and pinched her hair and skin and worked loose down around her neck. The grateful blood returned to her numbed cheeks as she spat out the second rag.

“Run, Ellis!” she shouted.

Ellis stumbled forward, but steadied himself and dashed back towards her. He stared hard at her over the top of his gag and turned his back to her. His tied wrists extended out, his fingers stretched to touch her, but she could not reach them - he could not help her up.

“Flee!” shouted Caldor from the arch of the bridge. “We are betrayed! Get back across the bridge to the Vallum!”

A guard dashed past; his torch flared with his rushing speed. He locked a sturdy arm around Ellis.

“You’re coming with me, sonny!” he said as he dragged Ellis away from her, back towards the bridge.

She fought to get up, desperate to stay close to Ellis.

But at least he might be safe - if the guard could just get him back inside the Vallum, there might still be hope.

The rope bit and cut at her wrists as she wrestled herself to her knees.

If she could only get to her feet and run to the bridge with the others.

Run and escape this deadly terror.

Run and be safe with Ellis.

She must get there.

She must help him.

Her legs strained and wobbled; she levered her tottering body to her feet. A sudden, chilling breeze whistled down the nape of her neck; a powerful grip grasped her arm from behind; a second rough hand clasped tight across her mouth.

The overpowering odour of the sulphur swamps assaulted her - the smell that had glued itself to her clothes when they took the Quillon and had only just begun to fade from their memory.

The unseen Reever lifted her up; her feet dangled; useless; no longer in contact with the ground; her captor held her fast and turned back towards the dark shadows of the bridge and the Cathedral.

Her thumping heart reeled; Ellis and the guard charged through the midnight undergrowth before her.

If they could just get there.

If Ellis could just be safe.

There wasn’t far to go.

Now that they had her, perhaps they wouldn’t bother with Ellis?

A swift blur of shadow moved across them. The guard who was dragging Ellis clutched his throat and fell. The arms of the shadow opened and engulfed Ellis and lifted him clear of the ground.

No!

There was no need to take him!

She was the witch!

She was the cause of all the trouble!

Surely now they had her, they could just let Ellis go?

Kira wriggled and kicked; her weary muscles heaved and pushed; the strong arms still bound her, unrelenting. She bit down on the calloused fingers pressed around her mouth. The bitter taste of sulphur bled onto her tongue and her lips gasped free.

“No! Don’t hurt him!” she shouted at the night. “Let me go!”

The stifled groan from her captor was quickly replaced with a roughened hand clamped hard across her throat, choking her words and breath.

Her stomach sank in sickened despair - they had caught her, fighting against this strength was useless - and now they had Ellis too.

Her frightened limbs stopped twisting and squirming - there was no point in straining against such brutal force - her body sagged from a crushing lack of air. The hand on her throat squeezed tighter, then eased its pressure and allowed her burning lungs to work again.

Several more guards perished as they ran back to the bridge, extinguished by the silent, blurred shadows.

Caldor had already reached the safety of the far side - even in the dark of night, the deep sheen of his black outline was still distinguishable.

The young stranger had sprinted back too - closely followed by the Librarian, who moved with a surprising turn of speed for one of such elderly status.

Her pounding footsteps rang out as she dashed over the peak of the bridge’s arch; she stumbled and clattered to the stones; she tumbled and rolled back down the other side of the bridge towards the safety of the Cathedral and the Vallum.This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

She knelt and felt about her cloak frantically, then stared back at the bridge.

“The Quillon!” she shouted, “I’ve dropped it!”

She started to her feet, but Caldor grabbed her arm.

“No! It’s too late!”

One of the bold, shadowy figures walked calmly to the peak of the bridge.

Kira recognised his outline - it was the Prince - the one who had fought with them in the heat and magma of the chamber.

He bent down and picked something up from the cobbles of the bridge - something whose strange metal glinted and shone, lustrous even in the depths of the night.

It could only be the Quillon.

The Prince pressed it to his heart then secured it carefully in the pouch on his belt.

The chilled air suddenly rushed and ruffled past Kira’s face and hair; the Reever who held her moved swiftly to the bridge.

“My King,” her captor said, “we have the Quillon and the prisoners - the clans will now rally behind you - let us leave now before their archers are alerted.”

“Did you see them run before us, Yulkvas?” the Prince replied. “Soon all the humans will know this terror - we will sweep them from the face of this world.”

“But they were not warriors, majesty - they are merely priests and bookworms - soldiers are harder to kill - especially as we have now lost the element of surprise. Let us leave now before the sun god awakens to punish us.”

The Prince turned and glared down at Kira. Her skin prickled with horror and disgust.

“Yes,” he said, “the witch who helped assassinate my father. Your death will last an eternity of pain. This world shall know what becomes of those who kill a great king of the Nizul.”

He sneered and stretched out a cruel hand towards her face.

Kira fought and wriggled, desperate to pull her head away, to escape the evil of his touch; the hand around her throat tightened and clasped her, helpless, in place.

Urgent, shuddering waves of resentment and fear convulsed within her.

What dreadful torture would he carry out in revenge for his father’s death?

His hand moved closer, towards her startled eyes; the foul stench of the swamps overpowered her senses.

She wanted to shout back her defiance at him, or plead for Ellis to be set free, but the strong arms restrained her anger and denied her a voice.

The Prince’s threatening fingers wormed closer.

She wrestled a squirming leg free; she swung, determined to kick her assailant.

Her foot thrashed, but missed its swift target; the Prince jerked back, then glowered his dark anger down at her.

He pulled back his fist and struck a bludgeoning blow.

A dizzying pain shattered across her jaw and cheeks; her shocked eyes closed; her ears whistled and buzzed with blackness; her world fell away into a blank, hollow nothingness.