The Weaver's Source

Chapter 39

I tried desperately to push myself onto my feet. I had managed to get myself onto my knees, all I had to do was get them to move but they refused. They felt numb. My body didn't recognise the legs I was staring at. They didn't feel like they were mine.

My eyes darted to the door when my magic's panic rose sharply then fell. I needed to get my legs moving. Grigore was in trouble. I knew he was. I had to go help him. I couldn't let him die.

All of a sudden my magic heated my legs up, burning them until there was a quiet pop. Feeling swept through them, swiftly followed by a horrible throbbing pain and relief that the paralysis was gone. It was uncomfortable getting onto my feet as my muscles ached in resistance but I managed to stand. I then glared at the door and hobbled over to it.

I grabbed the handle and twisted it hard in a half-hearted hope that it would just unlock itself for me. It didn't. I scowled in thought and my magic wailed again.

"I know." I muttered before grabbing the handle.

I braced myself then threw my weight at the door hard, making it shudder but little else. I tried again, harder, but it only made my shoulder throb in pain. I glanced about the room wildly and instantly went for the little stool I had used often to reach the higher bookshelves. I held it firmly in my hands then swing it hard at the door. The door shook and there was a faint crack from the chair but the door remained quite locked and intact. I tightened my grip and pressed my lips in a thin line and swung the chair again at the thick door with a hoarse cry. There sharp splintered snap and for a moment I was overjoyed until the stool's legs clattered to the floor, broken.

I stared with growing frustration and panic at the stubborn door. How was I to open it? It was too thick to break and I had to get out of here quickly. I once again looked about the room and spotted something by the fire place. I quickly ran over to it and swept up the fire poker. I looked at the sharp curve at the end of it then glanced at the door. The poker was strong, made of iron, and I had no other ideas.

I approached the door and shoved the end of the poker in between the door and the frame. I pushed it in further and checked it was secure before I gripped the pommel and slowly put my weight against it, forcing the poker away from the door. I pushed harder when the poker began to strain, digging my feet into the floor to put more force again the door. Tiny cracks began to echo in the air, like little explosions, before the door suddenly gave way.

I gave out a cry as I was thrown forward and landed uncomfortably on the floor. But I had done what I wanted. The lock had snapped.

My fingers latched onto the poker and I was on my feet in an instant, charging out into the halls. My magic was a tight uncomfortable ball of fear in my chest and my own worry was growing as the closer I got to Grigore, the louder the sounds of a fight began to creep into the air.

I ran faster, being guided by my magic, until I ran into my familiar room. I stood at the door, my heart pounding and my eyes wide as I stared at the scene.

Grigore was on the furthest side of the room, cornered and with Ursus drawn, the black blade swallowing up all light surrounding it. Arthur was closest to me and he held in his strong hands a long thin sword, starkly bright when compared to Ursus. Between them my temporary home had been destroyed; the bed was marked with blood, the divider broken and the chair Grigore had always sat in toppled over. It made nightmares bubble and turned my tongue numb with cold dread. But my terrified eyes were fixed on Grigore. Something was wrong with him. He looked worn and haggard and blood was dripping from thin cuts on his face. He looked weak compared to Arthur who, despite being shorter with less bulk, had a determined glint in his unnaturally black eyes. Why did Grigore look so weak? He always filled the room with strength and power. Why did I see nothing in him?