illiterate eyes and she slipped after the man.
Emelia was in a small garden interspersed by engraved stones. The grass had grown over them, like overly long hair. The gravelled path crossing the lawn was dotted with little mounds where it had seeded further. There were four small buildings that were difficult to see in the half-light. The closest had an iron door that stood open. The buildings were bland and functional, with few windows and flat slate roofs.
A tingle of excitement and daring arose in Emelia as she crept forward. Her own breathing seemed to be astonishingly loud in the silence of this curious garden and her breath left a vapour trail behind her as she crept to the door.
Emelia glanced through the open door but the man was nowhere to be seen. If she was so sure about this gentleman then why hadn’t she called out? The corridor beyond the door was decorated with dust and cobwebs. It ran ten feet and was lit only by mediocre light from a window so filthy as to be near opaque.
Emebaka’s voice whispered, tread carefully, Emelia, there is something dark going on here . She paused and considered turning and leaving but a twist of curiosity gripped her, pulling her forward like a fish on a hook.
In a small hall at the end of the passage the cloaked man stooped. He had slid a stone slab from the floor and Emelia could see that there were about a dozen more placed on the floor. The slab had been covering a dark pit and with horror Emelia saw a skeletal arm lolling out of the hole, its mummified flesh hanging from it like parchment. By Torik, she thought, I am in a cemetery.
The dark man was placing a metal casket into the hole. He paused for a moment and opened the casket as if confirming the contents. A blackness seemed to emanate from the interior, a paradoxical gloom, which shrouded the man’s hands in inky shadows. He snapped the lid shut and then lowered it into the grave. The stone cover grated as he slid it back over the hole.
Emelia was shaking as she snuck back out of the room. She did not have long before he turned towards the passage she had just emerged from. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt suddenly desperate to pass water even though her mouth was parched. Emelia’s foot scraped against the wall as she exited. The pale man jerked around and his dark eyes met Emelia’s.
He smirked and prowled towards her, his hand reaching for a long knife at his belt. Emelia ran as if Nekra herself was after her, shoes clattering on the dusty stone as she flew from the doorway and into the cold air. Her foot skidded on the gravel as she landed and she stumbled then righted herself, sprinting on towards the gates. The iron frames looked skeletal in the moonlight and ridiculously far away.
This was no masque making phantasmal threats; this was a sinister man with a knife who was intent on her murder.
Emelia reached the gates and began squeezing through the gap, scraping her belly on the flaking post. The bitter scent of rust filled her nostrils as the powder fell on her face—it was like the odour of old blood. She spared a glance back and saw the man emerge from the mausoleum door, brandishing his dagger. A golden funnel was tucked in his belt, its glitter like a coin in the murky depths of the ocean. Terror gave her a burst of energy as she scraped past the gates and into the square. How had she got into this mess?
Please Torik do not let me die here in this lonely square. All her dreams, all her hopes would come to nought, bled out on the mucky cobbles of this dingy corner of Coonor.
Two voices startled her as she darted across the square and Emelia nearly ran full tilt into their owners. A pair of the city guard, part of Lord Ebon-Farr’s garrison, were before her, looking with curiosity at her bedraggled figure. Emelia almost cried with relief; she had reached safety at last.
“Alright, young one? What’s going on with you, eh? Too late to be out in this part of town I’d say,” the
Emelia was in a small garden interspersed by engraved stones. The grass had grown over them, like overly long hair. The gravelled path crossing the lawn was dotted with little mounds where it had seeded further. There were four small buildings that were difficult to see in the half-light. The closest had an iron door that stood open. The buildings were bland and functional, with few windows and flat slate roofs.
A tingle of excitement and daring arose in Emelia as she crept forward. Her own breathing seemed to be astonishingly loud in the silence of this curious garden and her breath left a vapour trail behind her as she crept to the door.
Emelia glanced through the open door but the man was nowhere to be seen. If she was so sure about this gentleman then why hadn’t she called out? The corridor beyond the door was decorated with dust and cobwebs. It ran ten feet and was lit only by mediocre light from a window so filthy as to be near opaque.
Emebaka’s voice whispered, tread carefully, Emelia, there is something dark going on here . She paused and considered turning and leaving but a twist of curiosity gripped her, pulling her forward like a fish on a hook.
In a small hall at the end of the passage the cloaked man stooped. He had slid a stone slab from the floor and Emelia could see that there were about a dozen more placed on the floor. The slab had been covering a dark pit and with horror Emelia saw a skeletal arm lolling out of the hole, its mummified flesh hanging from it like parchment. By Torik, she thought, I am in a cemetery.
The dark man was placing a metal casket into the hole. He paused for a moment and opened the casket as if confirming the contents. A blackness seemed to emanate from the interior, a paradoxical gloom, which shrouded the man’s hands in inky shadows. He snapped the lid shut and then lowered it into the grave. The stone cover grated as he slid it back over the hole.
Emelia was shaking as she snuck back out of the room. She did not have long before he turned towards the passage she had just emerged from. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt suddenly desperate to pass water even though her mouth was parched. Emelia’s foot scraped against the wall as she exited. The pale man jerked around and his dark eyes met Emelia’s.
He smirked and prowled towards her, his hand reaching for a long knife at his belt. Emelia ran as if Nekra herself was after her, shoes clattering on the dusty stone as she flew from the doorway and into the cold air. Her foot skidded on the gravel as she landed and she stumbled then righted herself, sprinting on towards the gates. The iron frames looked skeletal in the moonlight and ridiculously far away.
This was no masque making phantasmal threats; this was a sinister man with a knife who was intent on her murder.
Emelia reached the gates and began squeezing through the gap, scraping her belly on the flaking post. The bitter scent of rust filled her nostrils as the powder fell on her face—it was like the odour of old blood. She spared a glance back and saw the man emerge from the mausoleum door, brandishing his dagger. A golden funnel was tucked in his belt, its glitter like a coin in the murky depths of the ocean. Terror gave her a burst of energy as she scraped past the gates and into the square. How had she got into this mess?
Please Torik do not let me die here in this lonely square. All her dreams, all her hopes would come to nought, bled out on the mucky cobbles of this dingy corner of Coonor.
Two voices startled her as she darted across the square and Emelia nearly ran full tilt into their owners. A pair of the city guard, part of Lord Ebon-Farr’s garrison, were before her, looking with curiosity at her bedraggled figure. Emelia almost cried with relief; she had reached safety at last.
“Alright, young one? What’s going on with you, eh? Too late to be out in this part of town I’d say,” the
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