The Magician's Vow: A Retelling of The Pied Piper of Hamelin

Part I - Chapter IX: Mound & Mayor

All I have been striving for, all I have done, has come down to this moment. Once I finish this last leg of my assignment, my task will be complete and my payment will be forthcoming. One more day at the very most. Just enough time to rid London of the rats, collect the gold, fetch the recipe from Ambrose, create it, and feed it to Lorelle. It seems so close that I can almost taste success, and yet there is much to do. 

When I went to see Lorelle after forming the flute, I was very dismayed at how quickly my spells of protection had waned. It was as if they had done nothing. And only a few hours had passed since their casting. Am I growing weaker? Or is the disease already overwhelming my powers? How will this translate to the power of the instrument? 

Will it be enough?

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The streets of London were silent. They were dead. Not one bird chirped overhead. Not a single gust of wind blew through the streets. Even the rats where nowhere to be seen, all hiding. With no food to feast on, there was no reason for them to be out in the daytime. 

But the roads were clean. Kislingbury had done what he said he would. No bodies lined the outside of buildings and the air smelled a little fresher than it had upon Eugene's first visit.

Eugene's boots softly clattered on the cobblestone street as he slowly walked through the city. The sound echoed gently off the building to either side of him. It was the only sound heard. 

He winced with every step. The transfer of his power into the flute had taken its toll. When he had awakened hours later --the sun’s rays were making themselves known at the edge of the horizon--, he found himself completely unable to move. Even his eyes were to drained to do anything more than blink. And even that took great effort. However, within a few minutes, his strength was slowly returning. After a minute or so, he could move his head and look around. A bit after that, he could sit up and use his fingers. A little later, and he was standing and stumbling along. But it was painful. 

When he was feeling able enough to return to the city and finish what he started, he found that the flute was burning hot, as if it had a roaring fire within its heavy wood. He had quickly wrapped it in a cloth and stuck it into his cloak, where it was still heated up, warming his chest and soothing his twinging stomach.

It was a little unnerving for the magician, being surrounded by emptiness. He was used to quiet and solitude, but this was different. This atmosphere had a heavy weight to it. It was not calming at all. It pressed heavily on the heart, mind, and back of the young man. It was as if the deaths and pain experienced in this deserted city had floated up into the clouds and now loomed up above anyone who dared to walk the street where the dead had once laid. 

The street winded deeper and deeper into the centre of the city. With so many dead, it was difficult to tell if London had been abandoned, or if everyone was holed up in their homes, not daring to come out or make a sound lest the ill hear and seek refuge with them. 

But voices could be heard not too far away. The sound echoed throughout the small street but no individual words could be made out. At first it sounded like a group of men simply talking with one another, but as Eugene walked closer and closer to the courtyard in front of the councillor's meeting house, the voice lowered and sharpened. Eugene instantly recognized the voice. It was Kislingbury. Just the man he wanted to see.