The Fickle Winds of Autumn

The humid sweat clung to Kira as she peered out from the dark of the tunnel, through the ornate grille, at the flickering orange shadows which lit the room beyond.

Two huge, bowl-shaped oil lamps stood on trestles directly opposite her low hiding place, guarding either side of the chamber’s entrance. Two more stood sentry just in front of her vantage point, their dancing flames glistened white across the dense rows of skulls which lined the rough interior.

The damp, stinking mire of the surrounding swamps still infected her clothes, but the fierce, sweltering bite of nauseating sulphur that stabbed out at her from the room, threatened to overwhelm her senses.

She winced and held her breath, desperate not to cough and betray her position, as the stench attacked the back of her throat.

Her legs and back ached from the cramped, motionlessness nights beneath Aldwyn’s spells, and her mind still raced with the fears of what the Reevers would do to them if they were caught - from the stories she had been told, it did not seem that even the three soldiers who had travelled with her, Aldwyn and Ellis, would not be enough to protect them if those horrifying-looking creatures returned unexpectedly.

“Well, at least we know the Librarian’s charts were accurate,” Aldwyn whispered. “This is definitely the relic chamber.”

“Now’s our chance, while the room is empty,” Beris whispered as he pushed past her. “Let me just make a start on this grille.”

Kira’s heart churned to the rhythm of every sound as Beris’s eager knife scratched at the wall around the opening.

They had risked everything to make it this far - would his blade ruin it all now with such a clumsy noise?

They must succeed, they must accomplish their goal - they must defeat the witches.

She stared out again.

The floor before her was solid rock, but away to her left, a large, seething pool of molten lava covered the rest of the chamber and splashed and gurgled along the far wall. Its viscous churning oranges and yellows threw a confusion of shifting shadows across a narrow arc of rock which jutted up from the solid floor and curved across the blistering vapours of the angry magma, but stopped short of the far wall, blocked by two large slabs of stone from above and below.

The intense, aggressive heat of this steaming, murmuring pit stung her skin even from the distant shelter of the tunnel - but at least its pervasive blast was drying out her boots and clothes.

“But if this is the relic-room,” she whispered, “where’s the relic - where’s the thing we came for?”

Aldwyn leaned past her shoulder.

“You see the barriers that come down across the far end of the bridge?” he asked. “It’s protecting a recess in the wall. That’s the direction the Reevers kept looking - so my guess is the Quillon will be a dagger-shaped object somewhere behind that mechanism.”

“So we’ll have to cross the lava to get to it,” said Kira. “But how will we get past those barriers?”

“Look closely,” Aldwyn said, “the top and bottom halves don’t quite join in the middle - someone small and nimble enough could just about squeeze through.”

Ellis pushed past from the tunnel behind them.

“Once this grille is off, I’ll sneak out and get it,” he said.

“No,” said Kira, “I didn’t trudge through all those sludgy swamps just to hide back here - I came to help.”

“I think it would be better if Ellis went,” Aldwyn intervened. “The Quillon is a very powerful object - it might try to protect itself or even weave its own destiny, if some of the more fanciful the scrolls are to be believed.”

“No,” Kira replied, “I thought we’d been through all this - I need to know that I’ve done my bit to stop those horrid witches - and besides, his shoulders would never fit through that gap.”

Ellis peered out at the room.

“Well, just be careful then,” he said reluctantly. “And I’m going into the room with you - just in case.”

“Hmm. Be very careful,” Aldwyn conceded. “And make sure you only hold the Quillon by its handle - never touch the blade.”

Even in the dark of the tunnel, his face was creased with obvious doubt.

Was she really so useless?

Such a liability?

Hadn’t she come all this way - just like Aldwyn, Ellis and the soldiers?

She dug her toes down into her boots.

She could get the Quillon.

She would have to.

“I can do it,” she whispered. “It won’t be easy getting over that bridge - but I’ll take my time, and I’m sure I can squeeze through the barrier - I’ll manage.”

“Yes,” said Ellis, “but it’s not exactly an easy route.”

“Hmm,” Aldwyn agreed, “but we have to hope that this might also be to our advantage - with the Quillon hidden away like that, it might be a good while before the Reevers realise it’s been taken - which will give us all the more time to escape.”

Beris put his knife away and turned to Aldwyn.

“Grab the other side. Don’t let it drop on the floor.”

Aldwyn huddled past her and helped to wrestle the weight of the grille away from the wall.

Kira held her straining breath; her worried ears listened intently, certain that the Reevers must detect them at any moment, as the thin rumbling, grating sound scratched and scraped into the quiet of the chamber beyond.

The soldiers’ tales of soul-devouring and demon worship surged across her imagination.

Her finger-tips grew clammy - whether from heat or fear, she could not be certain.

Finally, the two men smuggled the detached grille silently to the ground, and only the heaving gasp of Aldwyn’s breath could now betray them.

Beris darted his head through and scanned the room.

He crawled into the chamber, crouching low into the shadows of the trestle of one of the huge bowl-lamps above.

“All clear,” he reported.

Ellis clambered through and reached his hand back towards her.

Beris readied his bow and aimed toward the chamber’s entrance.

“I hope you know what you’re doing - trusting this to a girl,” he growled hoarsely to Aldwyn.

Kira’s vexation at his words was distracted by the sting of hot floor which scorched into her knees.

Ellis’s palm was already humid as he helped her stand.

She drew her head clear of the huge trestle-burner; the violent steaming heat of the lava assailed her and forced the perspiration to drip and tickle down her temples as she surveyed the room and the task before her.

The malevolent, rotting brimstone stench bit into her recoiling senses; her eyes welled with protective tears; her nose and throat withered under the harsh, boiling fumes.

The charnel skulls glared out at her from all around - ominous and forbidding in their unwanted welcome - their deathly urgency pressing in on her - reminding her that the Reevers might return at any moment.

She shuddered, desperate not to join their macabre ranks and gaze at all eternity through their ghastly hollow sockets.

“Hurry - before they come back,” Beris urged.

She would get the Quillon; she would prove him wrong.

Ellis nodded solemnly; his eyes shone out at her with a deep care and concern.

“Quickly then - but be careful,” he said.

Kira’s apprehensive stomach tightened as she hurried across the nauseous harshness of the room to the narrow beam of rock at the edge of the lava pool.

The scalding heat snarled up at her legs and feet; she winced and wiped the melting tears from her eyes, as the furious blast tore at the exposed skin of her face and the thick fog of sulphur fumes assaulted her nose and throat.

This was madness!

She would never survive such an ordeal.

Her anxious stomach knew that even if the heat and lava didn’t devour her, once she was out on the arcing bridge, she would be completely exposed - there would be nothing Ellis or the soldiers could do to help her if the Reevers returned unexpectedly - there would be nowhere to hide.

She glanced back at her companions and tried to quieten the panic of her stricken adrenaline.

Beris and Ellis looked back at her expectantly; Aldwyn gazed on from the shadowy opening.

The strength of their unity calmed her pulsing thoughts.

She touched her tunic and traced the outline of Harath’s feather.

She hadn’t come all this way just to give up now - not with the prize right before her, almost in sight.

She could not let the others down.

They were all relying on her.

They must stop the witches.

There must be no more scenes of merciless slaughter, like the one she had lived through.

There was no time to waste on self-pity - she must get on and do her job.

“Courage!” she urged her nervous feet, as they shuffled a few abbreviated steps - out, over the edge of the lava, and onto the thin spear of rock.

Her balancing arms wobbled out at either side; she must focus, she must keep looking forward, steadily at the barrier; she must not glance down at the malicious lava below, waiting for the opportunity to destroy and consume her.

The others were relying on her.

She must play her part.

She must trust her awkward legs to guide her across - to find a steady pathway over the slender curve of rock.

The hissing lava bubbled and rolled below; the gruesome heat lashed up; the barbed pungent stench invaded every pore.

She edged forward, her body swayed and adjusted to the narrow bow of stone, up and over the highest point of the arc.

She was half-way there!

She must keep going; she must be calm and stay focused.

The worn soles of her boots slithered on the thin smoothness of the rock as she moved down towards the opening.

Her fearful arms jerked out wider; she tilted and wobbled, but regained control before her prickling breath had time to panic.

She shortened her steps, one toe barely in front of the other; she spread her weight evenly, as best she dared, and slowly crept down the sweeping descent of the curve.

The barrier was there - just before her; her eyes were almost level with the slight gap between the two huge teeth of rock.

A shy metallic glint sparkled out at her from behind the thin opening.

Her excited heart fluttered.

It must be the Quillon.

She was nearly there.

The nervous sweat tickled at the back of her knees.

The bludgeoning heat punished her wilting frame.

Just a few more tentative steps.

Her relieved arms stretched out and flung themselves at the solid support of the top slab of rock.

She hugged it tightly and clung on, while her grateful lungs finally dared to relax and breath again.

Her tense shoulders eased back into their normal position.

The queasiness in her stomach settled.

She had made it!

She was over!

She would not stumble or fall from here.

The ravenous lava would have to wait a little longer for its next victim.

Her forearms and hands stung with sudden raw blistering pain. She twitched her wounded limbs back and jerked her cheek away from the barrier. Her worried feet wobbled but held steady. The slab had singed through her clothing and scalded her skin.

This was not the time to relax and congratulate herself - the rock slabs were far hotter than the rest of the noxious chamber - and she would have to worm her way through them to get the Quillon.

Her dizzy stomach prickled and churned.

But she did not have time to reassure it.

It was not safe to stay there.

She would have to work - and work quickly before the caustic heat could overwhelm her.

She stooped and squinted along the length of the narrow aperture.

Its intense quivering heat-waves blurred her view, but hanging from the wall, at the far end of the barrier, was a gleaming dagger-like object.

It must be the Quillon - just as Aldwyn had described.

The fierce heat from the rock slabs seared her face.

It was much worse than the time Sister Iona had asked her to help with the ovens.

But the Quillon wasn’t too far away - surely she could reach it?

She pulled her head back and tried to take a deep, calming breath in the maelstrom of venomous heat and fumes that roared up at her.

She could make it.

They were all relying on her.

She must make it.

She had come this far - now was not the time to waver.

She held her breath and wriggled her head and arms into the narrow gap.

She screwed her eyes tight against the ferocious temperature.

The rough stone barriers gripped and burned at her shoulders and belly, savaging her from all sides.

Her hands stung and blistered as she dragged herself further into the unrelenting torture.

The constricting surfaces, above and below, blocked out the constant turmoil and hiss of the lava, but the trapped quiet of the slender aperture began to fill with the acrid scent of charred cloth and hair.

She pushed with her scalded knees, twisting her body through the poisonous heat, as it slowly toasted her alive.

If she survived, she would never be so cruel to bread again.

The evaporating sweat did not have time to form on her brow or temples; the moisture from her mouth and tongue was stripped away as the formidable temperature burnt its dryness into her cracking lips.

But she must keep going.

She must reach the Quillon.

Her eyebrows shuddered and crinkled in the intense grinding heat, but she fought on.

She knew it could not be much further, but could not bear to open her vulnerable eyes and check.

Her fingers scrabbled ahead and gratefully curled around the edge of the bottom slab.

They were free of the suffocating temperature, but now had to grasp at the blistering rock to drag her head and body forward.

She squirmed her knees and kicked her feet, straining to pull her weight through.

Her head emerged; she gasped a relieved breath, but her body was still wedged in the burning crevice.

She pushed and dragged again, fighting the excruciating surfaces, until her shoulders broke free into the relative coolness of the chamber beyond the barrier.

Her apprehensive thoughts dared her to open her eyes.

There it was - hanging from a recess in the wall, the Quillon.

She would get it.

She would help to defeat the witches.

She stretched her taut, weary arm but failed to reach it.

Just a little further - a wriggle of her burning hips and knees.

She stretched again.

Her fingers latched on to the smooth handle of the Quillon and yanked it free from the wall.

A strange vibration quivered through her hand along the length of her arm.

Perhaps it was exhaustion or cramp from the unbearable heat?Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

The weight of the dagger nestled in her palm, but her hand refused to acknowledge that it was holding anything.

Perhaps the blisters had numbed her touch, or the thick perspiration had stolen her sensation?

Her fingers gripped tighter, and her eyes confirmed that the Quillon was definitely there.

Its lustrous metal glinted in a beguiling sheen of blues and greens and yellows.

A bitter smell of blackening cloth distressed her nose.

Her stomach and legs cried out in scorching pain and jolted her back to the perilous chamber.

This was no time to gaze at an old relic!

She must focus, she must move - and move quickly.

She pushed herself back into the tight boiling confines of the barrier; her battered boots rocked and scraped their wriggling way between the fiery airless surfaces.

She pushed with her free hand and clutched the Quillon tightly with the other.

Her arm pulsed along its length with a peculiar twisting throb.

She must get the Quillon back to Aldwyn as soon as possible.

Her scorched body squirmed through the burning rock.

She must get out.

She must not be trapped in there.

A deep panicking fear closed in around her, but she dug her scalded legs into the caustic surface and hauled herself back.

Her toes rasped, then fell free of the abrasive edge.

She was nearly there.

She must save herself, then get the Quillon to Aldwyn.

She dragged her weight along with her knees and pushed back with her empty hand.

Her legs kicked free and slid out.

She paused to grasp for the solidity of the bridge with her flailing boots, then finally pulled her torso and head free.

She stood upright and gasped down a thankful breath.

The sulphurous fumes thickened and closed in around her; she coughed and choked, but she had made it - she had retrieved the Quillon, and the foulness of the air could not dampen her proud, jubilant heart.

She glanced back across the lava pool towards her companions and held her prize aloft.

From the shadows of the trestle, Ellis motioned for her to return.

She steadied her triumphant feet and turned to shuffle back across the bridge.

The Quillon seemed heavy in her grasp and dragged her arm down. She could not balance as easily as before, and the tingling numbness had travelled to her shoulder.

She clung to the relic even tighter - she could not risk dropping it now, or it would be lost forever in the molten pool of lava which bubbled and swirled below. Her flickering eyes assured her it was still there - but she could no longer trust the touch of her fingers or hand.

Her cautious legs shuffled forward and reached the apex of the arc once more.

She was halfway back.

Just a little more time and she would be over.

She slowed her pace, anxious not to slip again.

She must focus and be attentive; she must return safely.

A few more slithering steps, down over the peak of the thin bridge, and the difficult bit was completed.

Just a few more careful paces and she would be across and safe.

They would all return to the Cathedral and stop the witches.

Then she and Ellis could begin a life together.

She would be happy.

She would not return to the nuns and the convent.

She dared to allow herself a luxury and glanced ahead.

Ellis looked back at her from the shadows of the far wall - even from there, loyalty and concern were etched across his apprehensive face.

But she had done it, she had played her part.

Just a few more shuffling steps back over the narrow arch and she would be back on solid ground.

The fomenting magma swirled and seethed below.

Just to her left, a heavy glutinous bubble bloated up from the eddying murmurs; its swollen, viscous energy pushed harder at the broiling surface; its thick ferocious skin expanded and grew until the agitated molten liquid could not restrain it. The huge bubble erupted with a blasting clap of sloppy orange lava and shot out a steaming jet of dense scalding vapour.

Kira tried desperately to avoid the acrid spurting discharge and jerked to the right; her doubtful feet wobbled; her body tilted and shifted, her terrified knees slackened and buckled, not certain that they could support her toppling weight.

But her ankles knew, with horrifying certainty, that she would fall into the deathly red pit below.

Her startled eyes flashed at the Quillon.

They had come all this way for it - Aldwyn would need it to fight the witches and save the world.

She must not let her friends down; she must do her bit - if she could not save herself, she must at least give them what they needed to survive - a hope for their future.

She hurled the Quillon as far as she could, over the vicious pool of lava, into the chamber beyond.

Its metal clanged and clattered as it scraped along the solid floor towards her companions under the trestle lamps.

The writhing momentum of her throw jerked her body back over the narrow spit of the bridge, but gravity had grasped her and she recognised its fearful, deadly grip.

In a frantic, desperate lunge, she flung her tumbling body down across the thin causeway.

Her teeth clashed hard against each other, as her soft ribs jolted into the brutal rock and crushed the breath from her lurching lungs.

The venomous, shifting lava glared up at her terrified eyes. Its sickening heat pierced up remorselessly at her dangling feet and threatened to melt her horrified toes.

She clung on and wrapped her shocked arms around the stone arch; she scrambled her precarious legs back up onto the bridge, coughing through the acrid sulphur fumes and the melting agony of the appalling heat.

“Kira!” Ellis called out. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

He charged across the floor towards the bridge.

She dared not look up at him; she must focus. She wrestled her awkward body back above the narrow slither of scalding rock. Her quivering legs refused to try and stand, but she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees.

“It’s all right! I’m fine! Just wait there!” she whispered hoarsely - there was no sense in both of them risking their lives above the prowling lava.

She crawled her winded body gingerly back along the bridge; a sudden, ruinous stab of panic coursed through her as her startled ears bristled at the heavy echo of Reever footsteps rapidly approaching the chamber’s entrance.

1245

- the relic causes it - as she recovers, hears footsteps - also explains why Ellis is in the room further, he dashes in to rescue her

Then he gives his life to save her - I knew a girl would bring bad luck- dying breath - or soldier shot in back/arrow?