Young Writers Society

A/N: I'm currently working on another story at this time, so no updating on this idea will occur for a while. Read on!

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“Olan, I can’t keep on like this! The weight is too much from me!”

“Hold on, Pris, hold on… Cross City is just a little ways away.”

“Olan, I can’t—”

“Pris, please. For our Lord’s sake…”

Two cloaked figures hurried through the soft night, breathing heavily and looking behind them for followers. One walked with lengthy strides, half running half walking, sure-footed on the path yet uneasy of what they would find in Cross City. The other stood shorter and lighter in weight than the tall one, struggling to keep with the pace while holding up a large, woven basket on their back. The figures walked briskly on the path, mere shadows passing by in the Rose Prairie. Blue-black clouds covered the starry sky, occasionally giving off a drum roll of thunder, warning the mortals below of an awaiting storm to come. Otherwise, the night smothered everything, thick and velvety, only the hurried footsteps of the travelers piercing the veil.

A ways ahead, a thick, dark-brown smudge blurred a small portion of the night horizon. Cross City, as many would say, didn’t bring salvation to escapees—it brought them closer to the trap itself. The two figures didn’t have any alternatives in that matter, however. Cross City, or jumping into the heart of the wolf’s den.

The smaller figure, Pris, suddenly grabbed Olan’s cloak and covered his mouth with a small, slightly bluish hand. Olan responded to this by gesturing to the basket.

Pris shook her head. “Not the child,” she whispered, barely audible. “Listen.” Olan steadied his breathing so even he could barely hear himself. He nearly panicked at the impending silence. The trees didn’t rustle; the grasses remained still and wispy. Nothing made a sound, putting the two people on the edge. It seemed too silent. There was something else too… Olan couldn’t put his finger on it, but it just seemed odd.

Pris removed her hand from her companion’s mouth. “Walk slowly now,” she commanded. “But not too loudly that you can’t hear our own breathing. Better yet, try not to breathe at all.” They continued their trek to Cross City following her instructions. Olan didn’t hear anything once again, and that oddness came back.

“Walk harder now, making enough sound that even a deaf person would cringe at.” Olan stomped on the ground and finally heard it. There were echoes to his footsteps, and Pris’s too. How could there be an echo on such a night when nothing made a sound? Unless—

“Get down!” screamed Pris. Olan fell to the ground on his hands, just in time before a blazing ball of fire hurtled past where his head would have been. It collapsed into a tree, vanishing as though it had never been there. Mage fire, only used on other magic users, he thought. Good thing I ducked.

Olan pounced up and reached for the sword he had concealed in his cloak, whipping around and quickly summoning a torture charm, hitting a person who screamed and fell to the ground. Three dark inkblots were jauntily standing twenty yards from Olan and Pris, one down on the ground moaning. He sheathed his sword.

Pris had her cloak thrown off and the basket in her hand, glaring at the blots. She raised her blue hand and three lightning bolts shot out from it and hit the blots. The blots absorbed the energy and all of them turned into light figures, each carrying a trident of sizzling white fire. The figures were thin and wiry, and the oddest part about it is that they cast no light on their surroundings.

Pris stared at them in alarm. “Golems,” she whispered in awe. Golems were creatures that absorbed anything you shot at them and used it against you. Typically, the only way to kill them was to poke out its eye. Olan clearly remembered that they had just been blots when they saw them, no eyes at all. And how could the golems shoot mage fire when neither Pris nor Olan used it in the first place?

“Give us the baby,” crackled the first one, pointing its trident at the basket. Its voice echoed and sounded mechanical. “And we won’t make your death as painful as we planned… right, my pets?” A mouth appeared on what the two mortals assumed a head and smirked. The two other golems formed mouths too and licked non-existent lips, rolling out a blood-red tongue in anticipation.

“And you won’t make our deaths as painful?” repeated Olan.

“Oh yes,” the leader said. “Much less painful.”

For a few moments there was silence.

“Go back to the netherworld you came from, beast!” said Pris. She smacked her hands together and brought it down to the ground, creating a blinding flash of light and a rumble. When the light receded, the beasts were rubbing invisible eyes and walking around blindly.

Pris had the basket strapped to her back again and had shrugged on her cloak. “Golems’ eyes are very sensitive, even if concealed,” she said and pushed Olan forward. “Move! Before their eyes are back to normal!” Olan ran now, an easy gait, with Pris scampering behind. He had never known Pris could run so fast.

The night’s silence wasn’t disturbed by the exchange back at the golems’ place. In fact, it helped the two mortals, hiding them from the golems when their eyes were back to normal. Cross City flew up into their faces, thirty-foot walls barring them from the mess inside. The city, not unlike the night, made no noise, only vibrations of its existing.

The guard at the side door eyed them suspiciously. “Business?” he drawled, sending a wave of beer breath up their noses.

“For Nagra’s sake, man, let us in! It’s the middle of the night and we’re tired!” said Olan impatiently.

“I said business!” shouted the guard.

“Hush now…” lulled Pris, stroking his hair. “Go to sleep… wonderful, painless sleep…” The man seemed to soften in Pris’s touch, falling against the wooden door and sliding to the ground. Pris searched his belt and found a ring of keys, filing through them until she picked a rather used one and stuffed it in the key hole. It clicked.

“Nice persuasion there,” said Olan.

Pris shrugged. “It comes in handy.” She opened the door, and beckoned Olan in. They entered the door to find themselves in a small alley riddled with trash and rats. An iron staircase stretched up on one of the buildings above them, and the road at the end of the alley looked deserted. They ran down the alley and into the road, looking around frantically for an inn. There was a sign hanging from a building a few meters away that had a house on it, so Pris and Olan ran there and swung open the door.

The room had a few tables scattered around, and a staircase to the upstairs. A desk clerk read a book in a comfortable chair, sipping a mug of who knows what and humming a tune. He looked up sharply when they came in and smirked. Pris went up to the counter and leaned over the desk, smiling charmingly.

“Do us a favor, will you?” she slurred in the typical Hills accent. “Give us a room? Preferably a one away from everybody else? Me and my husband really don’t like such ragabonds messing with our ears at the middle of the night.”

“Well, sure my lady,” the clerk said, tipping his hat and raising an eyebrow. “Might I entertain you with anything else?”

The clerk stared open-mouthed at the gold crown she pressed into his hand. “A hot bath in the mornin’ will do.”

“Um… um,” stumbled the clerk. “R-room 14… last room on the left… second level… here’s the k-key…” He handed her a key and kept staring at his palm while Pris and Olan clambered up the stairs.

Upon reaching the room, Olan sat himself in a chair by a window overlooking Cross City. Pris came over, and Olan first got good look at her for the first time since… since then. Her dark brown hair was cut short around a heart-shaped face. Brilliant, liquid blue eyes gleamed out from thin brows, lips pulled back in an ever constant smile. The slightest blue tinge to her skin gave away the fact she was part merfolk, but nobody knew other then Olan and their Lord and Lady.

Pris sat down on the window seat, holding the basket protectively.

“Is he all right?” asked Olan. “We were going through a lot since…”

“Then,” ended Pris. “No, he’s okay. Want to have a look at him?”

“Of course I do, Priscilla!” smiled Olan. “He is my best friend’s son. I only saw him once when he was born from his mother.”

Pris lifted the wicker lid and they both sighed lovingly. There on a soft blue blanket lay a babe, and a very young one at that. Dark curls bordered a small, smooth face with a button nose and small dimples. The baby was wrapped up in another blanket, this one being dark purple and having the letters SS written in fancy gold writing. The baby snuffled, and then sneezed. He opened his eyes, and both of the adults watched as the bright green eyes looked from Pris to Olan.

“He looks exactly like them…” trailed Pris.

Olan shook his head. “A shame… a shame it is…”

Pris closed the lid. “I’m going to take him into the bedroom and feed him, change him, things of that like. You wait here while I’m in there.” Pris hauled the basket up again and swayed over to the bedroom door and closed it softly.

Olan stared out the window, looking at the dirty bridges and canals that formed the honeycomb city of Cross. Life had been so much better before the assault began. It wouldn’t be much longer before all of Isavinia would be taken. First Carthia, those heathen barbarians, turned to the Wolf. Then the Republic of Jays succumbed when the crown princess was stolen and threatened to be killed. She was killed anyways, so he had heard. Hrotgan came to next, and that disgusted Olan the most. They actually wanted to join up with the Wolf’s forces just so they could kill and conquer. Hrotgan didn’t know, quite obviously, that the Wolf would kill them in the end too. The whole of Nalia was conquered by the Wolf in no time. Only the Isle of Skaye and Isavinia, proud Isavinia with its strong rulers, was left.

Olan sighed. The world’s life span swiveled into a close, leaving only remnants of what had been Nalia. The whole universe was conquered in the end, all coming down to a vortex, spinning and painful, tearing at what was left that had existed. That’s what his Lord said his dreams were mostly about. He had been proud and strong, wise and fair at one point. The dreams changed him completely, and provided his downfall. Now nothing was left… only the child. And Pris and Olan.

He sat up and headed toward the other bedroom, but stopped in mid-walk when he heard a scream come from the bedroom in which Pris was in. Pris’s scream. Olan ran to the door and swung it open, just to find Pris lying motionless on the floor, and a figure picking up the baby.

The figure—a man—turned to Olan and stared coldly at him. Olan remembered that face. The Wolf’s top henchman. The one that led the attack into the city.

“You!” screamed Olan. “What have you done!?”

“Hmph. Olan Breano. We meet again,” the man stated dryly. He picked at one of the baby’s curls, making him squeal and spit. The man slapped the baby’s hand and it cried louder. The henchman then whispered a flowery word and the baby ceased to make a sound at all. Olan winced in disgust. This… this thing was slapping a baby. How wrong was that? He looked at Olan. “I was just picking up my master’s… property.” The man kicked at Pris. “She just happened to get in the way, so… I protected myself.”

Pris was starting to turn a darker blue and Olan comforted himself in thinking she was sleeping. He changed his mind when he saw that her chest wasn’t moving. “You’ve killed her,” he said flatly. The man killed Pris.

The man shrugged, making his pointy shoulders arch to the sky. “Her death is none of my business.”

“You killed her.” Olan prepared himself for a killing charm, focusing his energy into seeing the man on the ground, writhing out of control. “Now I will—”

The man held up his hand and Olan found himself caught in an extremely strong immobilization charm. “Now, I do not want to be interfered with my task. Just keep out of the Wolf’s way and we will keep out of yours. Now, I must be going. I have a few more appointments before my meeting with my Lord.”

“You will not get away with this!” screamed Olan, feeling the tears starting to emerge. The man slid over to the broken window he had come from in and whispered a flowery word again. The bonds on Olan unraveled.

“Like I said,” the man called, half out the window. “I must be going! Oh, and when I killed her, she said one last thing. She said, ‘I love you Olan.’” The man laughed. “You didn’t know, did you? Well, that kind of matter doesn’t involve me. I really must be going now.”

Then he was gone, leaving Olan alone to despair. He limped over to Pris and her dead body. He loved her too. He had ever since she came crashing into him that one day. Now she was dead... and he had failed by letting the Silver Wolf catch the boy.

Olan sat there and wept.

He had failed the world

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No feedback is requested, though I'd love it if you did. This was just out there for everybody to see how I write. 'Til next, adieu!