The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Kira’s jaw throbbed with an ache which splintered across her face. The metallic taste of her own blood filled the back of her throat. Her tongue probed the ragged inside of her cheek - shredded by the edges of her teeth. She tried to reach up and touch the tender wound, but her arms refused to move. She forced her dull eyes to open and tried to make sense of her dark, bleary surroundings.

Her back was stretched - pressed flat against a hard, wooden surface; her limbs and forehead were secured by the weight of rough chains. She tried to wriggle free, but the thick irons burned and bit into her skin the more she fought against their abrasive oppression.

Her waking senses struggled to filter and focus properly. Through the dim gloom, a huge wall of rock towered sheer above her, then curved around to form a wide expanse of encircled space.

A wandering midnight breeze whistled gently to itself as it caressed the top edges of the outcrop; and high above, a scattering of tiny white stars scrutinized her intently from within the vast black sky.

She must be outside somewhere, but she was not cold.

A thick, choking warmth of sulphur cloaked itself around her.

Her memories stabbed and prickled at the smell - the Reevers!

And this must be the crater of their volcano.

Yes, the Reevers.

They had captured her.

The frightened pieces of her memory shocked back into place.

Ellis!

Was he safe?

Was he here too?

What had they done to him?

An acid panic burned through her stomach.

She tried to force her head up, desperate to look for signs of him, but the heavy chains clung to her and compelled her to remain flat.

She squirmed her head and eyes to the side and managed to peer down along the length of her body, past the bindings on her feet.

Her shrill anxiety jabbed, then subsided, relieved.

He was there - a little distance away, chained flat and spread-eagled on a rough wooden bench of some sort, in a similar position to her.

They were both on some sort of low stage or platform, raised at one end of the crater, surrounded by the rumbling orange glow of lava; a scattering of fires and flaring torches dispersed across the rest of the hollow expanse, piercing into the dark and the sporadic, noxious billows of hot gas.

Ellis was next to a table; a series of skulls and daggers glinted on it in the flaming light.

He wasn’t moving.

Was he alive?

He didn’t seem to be conscious.

Her eyes strained through the dim night for signs; her keen ears felt for sounds of a breath - but the worry of her own heart was making too much noise and disturbance to hear clearly.

But if they had let her live, then why kill him?

Perhaps they had just punched him and knocked him out, like they had with her?

And it wouldn’t make sense to kill him back at the Cathedral, then bring his body all the way here.

Perhaps they wanted to torture him first, for helping to kill the King?

Perhaps they would torture them both?

But that would mean he must still be alive.

Her flurry of thoughts surged with an eagerness of hope.

Her willing ears laboured again for a breath or a clink of his chains.

From behind, a sharp series of footsteps approached the platform; the crater below began to fill with the busy echoes of voices and boots.

A queasy, thudding pulse flooded through her body.

There was no time to check on Ellis.

They would not have to wait long for the pain, and torture, and death that was certain to follow.

She clenched her nervous fingers tightly and braced herself.

The chains held her fast - there was no hope, no chance of escape.

There was nothing she could do to help Ellis.

If only they would spare him somehow.

She twisted her head, but before she could see who was coming, the Reever she recognised as the Prince strode past and stood at the edge of the platform.

His clothing was different - it seemed more formal and elegant than before. A large golden collar glinted around his neck in the low red light; its rich jewels flashed with his every movement - it was the collar she remembered from the chamber with the Quillon - the collar of his father.

Three more Reevers accompanied him, each dressed in long, flowing robes. The outlines of their hands and faces seemed older, more wrinkled than the other Reevers she had encountered. They stood behind him as he spoke to the large crowd who had now gathered on the ground in the bowl-shaped arena below.

“My people, my beloved clan of Za’nizula, some nights ago, our greatest and most worthy king, Xeruw, my father, was cruelly assassinated just a short distance from where we now stand. I have asked you all to assemble here tonight to bear witness to my acceptance of the collar of Xal.”

The crowd grunted and howled up their loud approval to him. Kira’s skin bristled with frightened goosebumps at their baying, guttural roar.

“But this night not only gives you a new king - it will also usher in a new era of our destiny. We will take back control of the upper world, and rid it of the plague of humans - those who have dared to push us back into these swamp lands, to reduce our once-glorious borders. We will show them that we are strong - that we are worthy and the true children of Hekubate - that our soul-lords are powerful - that we are the true rulers of this world.”

The crowd gave out an angry, belligerent bellow in fierce unison; it reverberated around the high volcanic walls.

Kira shuddered and fought to struggle free, but the defiant chains held her tightly.

“Our Great Lord, Hekubate, has commanded it, and in his name, and for our eternal glory, shall this conquest of all the lands take place! Let it begin!”

The crowd stamped and thundered their loyal support and shook at the darkness of the night.

The three elderly Reevers moved past the table laden with skulls and surrounded Ellis. One stood over his chest and held the Quillon aloft; its acute metal gleamed and pulsed in the reflection of the glowing lava. The three chanted in unison and swayed from side to side. The crowd in the crater added their voices, so that the whole arena resounded and writhed with a slow rhythmical incantation:

“Hek-u-ba-te! Hek-u-ba-te!”

The elder lowered the Quillon to Ellis’s chest.

Kira’s horrified mind raced - she remembered Aldwyn’s shocked eyes and the terrible damage the Quillon had already brought.

Surely if they cut Ellis with it, he would disintegrate and die too?

She fought the stubborn chains, but they refused to let her go.

The Reever in the robes raised and lowered the Quillon again.

The beating chant of the crowd grew louder.

The muggy sweat of the sulphur choked at her nostrils.

She had to break free; she had to help Ellis; she had to stop them somehow.

The Reever brought the knife down for a third time and slashed across Ellis’s chest.

No!

He mustn’t die!

Not like this!

The chains rattled furiously around her but refused to break or move.

Ellis cried out; his painful voice pierced through the low repetitive rumble of the crowd.

Kira’s stabbing, overwhelming dread bristled and puzzled.

The Quillon hadn’t killed him!?

“Ellis!” she shouted.

“Kira! Save yourself!” he yelled. “Don’t let the demon take your soul!”

The chains around him jangled and clashed; he kicked and wriggled.

His dark blood oozed out from the pulsing wound across his chest and dripped slowly down from the bench into a large bowl on the platform beneath him.

Perhaps the three Reevers in the robes were priests of some sort?

Perhaps they had control over how the knife cut and who it killed?

But now he would bleed to death!

The faint and fatal splash of his blood into the bowl stabbed at her tormented mind.

She had to get free and save him.

She wrestled ferociously, but the implacable chains held her cruelly in place.

Ellis’s kicks and convulsive struggles grew weaker and less frequent; the constant ebb of his life grew fainter and dimmer; it flowed helplessly out of his body with every drip; his energy, his warmth, his friendship spilled out before the baying Reevers, who cheered and chanted through the rhythmic tumult of the ceremony, on the ground below.

Her ears burned with frustrated anger; a dismal, impotent shame haunted her body; she was powerless to repay the trust and kindness of the friend who had helped her, who had risked so much for her.

But wasn’t she supposed to be some sort of witch?

Couldn’t she just blast them all with a spell or something and save Ellis?

Hadn’t Aldwyn told her that she could destroy the whole world?

If only she could focus and see past this scrambled fear; if only she knew how to wield the magik.

How she did she do it last time?

Her arm had hurt - but did the magik come from there or from her mind?

But what if everything that Aldwyn had told her was true?

Would she really destroy the world?

The last time it happened, the shock had frightened her - almost as if the magik was in control of her, rather than her controlling it - and it left her feeling weaker and more scared than before.

If this power was really somehow connected to the Auguries, could she dare use it?

Did she want to be anywhere near it?

Such an almighty and uncontrolled mysterious magik?

No - magik could not be the solution.

She could not risk unleashing such a force and destroying everything - including Ellis.

But then, what was the point of being so powerful if she was still so helpless and left at the mercy of such evil as the Reevers?

The three priests strode across the platform towards her.

A bleak panic of fear stole her breath.

It was her turn now.

Her turn to be sliced open and bleed to a terrible death.

What did Ellis mean about the demon?

The priests loomed over her and swayed; their greying skin etched and wrinkled against the dim night; their sharpened teeth glinting in cruel and evil expectation. The central priest raised the Quillon above his head, its strange metal radiant in the steamy gloom.

The constant chant of the crowd grew louder, more insistent.

She wriggled and squirmed, but the chains held her fast.

The priest lowered the Quillon close to her chest; so close that it almost sliced through her; so close that its sharpness called out to her terrified skin; he pulled it back up again.

Her heart thudded and leapt in her chest.

Why was she so helpless?

Why couldn’t she save them both?

Where was the courage that Amber had pressed into her?

The strength that Harath had seen?

The priest brought the steely blade down again.

She should have stayed in the convent, safe and well, with the occasional pikelet for breakfast.

Should she close her eyes to die?

Or look at Ellis one last time?

Perhaps that would give her the bravery to face her demise?

She peered down past her feet.

He lay still, no longer kicking, just the feeble drip of his blood.

But if Ellis was dead, at least she would soon be with him; at least they would not be alone; they would have each other - forever, for all eternity.

The grotesque flicker of the Quillon sparked her anger and fear and resentment as the priest raised it for the third time.

It can’t be right that they should die like this.

A itching prickle tingled beneath her skin.

Her forearms glowed weakly, strange against the dark night.

No! This wasn’t what she wanted!

The lustrous metal of the Quillon flashed and gleamed as its keen edge plunged down toward her vulnerable body.

She turned her terrified eyes away; her breath stuttered and paused and waited, ready for the painful wounding slice to burn across her chest and end her miserable life.