by Ross Kitson
Chapter 5The Lamb
Windstide 1920
Words of death whispered in her ears as the cadaverous hands tightened around her throat. Emelia struggled as the hands scratched and clawed, pulling her down into the stifling dampness of the grave. Soil was tipping into her mouth, filling her lungs, choking and suffocating as the grave edge collapsed onto her. Blessed Torik, she was being buried alive, the desiccated corpses crammed for all eternity by her side.
Emebaka, where are you?
Emelia jolted awake, legs flailing out into the dormitory. Her sheets were soaked and wrapped like a shroud around her upper body. For a moment she thought she had wet the bed sheets, like that night those years before.
No, it’s sweat, she rationalised, as she began to shiver. It wracked her body in uncontrollable waves and, biting her lip, she clambered out of bed. The room was black; there was no moonlight shining through the window. A dark cloud had rolled in at dusk and Mother had spoken of a storm brewing.
Emelia’s mouth was arid and her head pounded with dull throbs. Whereas most of her body was cold, her back was still red-hot from the welts of the birch. By Torik, she needed a drink.
The water in the bowl was frozen. She poked it to try break the ice but her nail just scraped off the top. A chink of light infiltrated under the door from the kitchen. She moved towards the thin amber strip then hesitated. Had she just seen a motion at the window?
Heart thumping, she turned. A pale face peered through the glass.
Emelia staggered back, almost knocking the bowl off the table. He’s come for me. He’s come to kill me, to drink of my soul—because of what I saw.
A loud snore from Sandila jolted her from her panic and she looked back at the window. There was nothing there save the reflection of the scanty light from under the door.
She was desperate for a drink now, her throat felt raw and she could still sense the choking hands from the dream. Emelia eased the door from the dormitory to the kitchen open and slipped through.
The kitchen was rich in shadows, the only light source in the absence of moonlight being a solitary lantern. The wide tables and cupboards were lent a sinister appearance by the half-light. The pans and pots, hung from the walls, reflected the scanty glow like the eyes in the forest at night.
Emelia scampered across the kitchen to the water barrel, praying it wasn’t frozen. She dipped a dented beaker into the water and drank deeply.
A shadow fell across the water.
Emelia spun in panic. Two figures stood before her, the dull lantern light illuminating their glistening viscera. Flesh hung like an old rag from their greasy skulls. They wore the uniforms of the city guard.
“You killed us,” they moaned in unison.
The beaker hit the stone floor with a sharp clatter as Emelia stumbled back. Torik help me, he is in here with me.
“Emelia...”
The voice was in her ear, the breath as dank as a tomb. She whirled, hand scrabbling for a knife on the table by the barrel.
A visage as white as chalk, eyes as black as opal was before her. She raised the knife.
“Emelia, what are you doing?”
A strong hand gripped her wrist and with a gasp she saw it was Torm in front of her. Her arm began shaking and Torm eased the knife from her grasp.
The two stood in silence for several minutes, whilst the tremors subsided.
“What in the Pale is going on, Emelia?” Torm asked finally.
“Nothing. It’s just a bad dream—everything here is just a bad dream.”
Torm nodded and touched her arm gently; his touch was burning hot on her cold skin. “Was it something that happened in the lower city, when you ran away? I’ve been worried about you.”
Emelia shrugged and looked away, ashamed of her tears. Torm had been the only one who had made an effort to talk to her since her caning.
“Why in the Pale did you come back?” Torm asked. “If I’d have got away I’d be half way to the ocean by now.”
“It’s safe, that’s why.”
“Safe? From what?”
“It doesn’t matter, Torm. I’m... I’m sorry. Get to sleep before someone gets the wrong idea.”
“I couldn’t care what anyone thinks in here,” Torm said petulantly. “You’re pretty much my only friend anyway.”
Emelia smiled and stroked his cheek. A trace of fluff had begun to grow on his face. He placed his rough hand on hers. She quickly turned and scampered back across the kitchen and into the dormitory, her mind in turmoil.
