Scavengers of the Deadlands

Chapter Seven: In Which Things Start to Go Wrong

 A flute played, dancing a sombre tune through her dreams, so melancholic, slow, almost as though it were dragging her down into a deep, dark pool. She tried to wake herself up, forcing herself to the surface, fighting the dreary lullaby, but it was beyond her ability and she found herself drifting, on waves as dark as oil, tumbling and roiling beneath a midnight sky. Down they pulled her, down into their depth. Her hands flailed, fingers breaking the surface, but there could be no escape, no escape…

She awoke to Connie shaking her and shrieking in her ear.

“She’s gone Abi, gone! Just like that.”

It took a moment for clarity to restore itself and for Connie’s words to register. “Who’s gone?”

“Niamh.” One word, spoken with finality. “Why would she just up and leave? Why wouldn’t she say goodbye?”

 Sleep warred with grim reality and was beaten into submission, Abigail risked a glance at the other bunk. It was devoid of the Chinchilla, the blankets thrown askew, which was so unlike Niamh, who usually left them in a neatly folded pile. Her chest lay open, also empty and her knapsack was gone.

If it were not for the fading scent of vanilla that hung in the air, nor the fact that it was totally out of character, it would have been easy to believe Niamh had merely run away. But why should she? Last night she had been filled with excitement about the upcoming Ball, her studies had been going well – she was amongst the top of her class. Why would she chose to run away?

But first you must lose something. Or maybe someone? That is dear to you.

Daina’s enigmatic words sprang to her awareness. She ran to the door, flinging it open. There, upon the flagstones, a black circle of Runic Weave slowly faded into nothingness. She stared at it, willing herself to remember it, to memorise every line, every tiny Rune. It was a complicated Weave indeed . “Paper, Connie,” she shouted, “fetch me paper and something to write with.”

Connie must have been shaken, for she hastened to do as she was bid without a word in retort.

As the last Runes of the circle vanished, Abigail scrawled them down, not enough to replicate the circle, but perhaps enough to know where they had taken her friend.

“What’s going on here?” Connie asked, the moment Abigail took the pencil from the paper. “Where’s Niamh?”

“She’s been taken,” Abigail replied. “Kidnapped. I’m not sure who by, but I suspect Bjornston has something to do with it.”

These seemed to bewilder Connie. “Abi,” she said, “something’s going on, isn’t it? Something big, something bad. And you never told me.” Her eyes blazed with newfound anger. “You never told me, and you never told Niamh and now she’s gone, she’s been taken and you could have helped, warned her, but you chose to stay silent.” Her voice was rising in pitch, echoing down the corridor and beyond the stone walls murmured voices rose in complaint.

“Keep your voice down,” Abigail hissed, grabbing Connie’s arm. “Do you want to get us in further trouble? We can’t help Niamh if Bjornston realises we know what’s up.”

With great effort straining her face, Connie bit back her words, falling into silence. She dragged Abigail back into their room. “Sit down,” she said, “and tell me what in Elysia’s name is going on.”

“I’m not sure exactly myself,” Abigail replied, “all I know is that several first years, every year disappear from their beds, and everyone seems to think they’ve run away.” She glanced around, had Daina not mentioned a note? A quick search of Niamh’s bed found it, half wedged under the pillow. Fingers shaking as she fought her growing panic, growing despair into control, Abigail fumbled with the envelope, drawing out the thin slip of paper. It was regular lined paper, perhaps torn from Niamh’s own notebook.