How the Axe Falls

Chapter 9

Talon's sleep was fitful. Spells of darkness were often disturbed by his own laboured breaths and sobering visions of green eyes. Even when he did find moments of rest, his dreams failed to comfort him.

He found himself descending a hill to a bowl of land, which housed a tree stump – the headsman's block back in Edgecliffe. Near submerged in a crimson pool, which Talon strongly suspected was blood, the block just poked over the top of this tiny lake. It went up almost to his waist when he reached the deepest part of the bowl and was almost as thick as tar, making each step a laborious effort.

Strangely, three bodies, their exposed necks cleaved more cleanly than the headsman could have managed, were lain over the stump of tree.

He stumbled at the sight of them, almost dropping into the pool. The bodies stirred suddenly, pale hands arching mechanically into the blood.

Talon stood transfixed as they returned from the pool a moment later, crooked fingers embroiled in fistfuls of hair. He wanted to scream but found he hadn't the breath to manage. Rivulets of blood streamed from the sodden hair down veined heads and over trembling blue lips. He recognised who those three blood-soaked heads had belonged to.

One of the heads lips parted but the lack of other facial movement and the head's closed eyes made it seem as though its voice came from elsewhere.

'Talonnnnn,' his father's voice rasped.

'Talonnnnn,' his mother gurgled.

'Brotherrrrr,' his sister wheezed.

No, no, no, no, no.

'F-f-father?' Talon whimpered finally, 'Mother... Issy?'

They raised their other arms in unison, reaching out towards him with fingers contorted like claws, and began to clamber over the tree stump.

Talon tried to back away but found himself stupidly rooted to his spot. The blood had somehow become even thicker and now held his legs as though he were anchored by anvils.

His family, also deterred by the blood – though nowhere near enough for his liking – cut a slow advance towards him, heads held out before them like lamps to ward off the dark.

This is just a dream...

Panicking, Talon reached into the blood, searching for the hiding knife in his boot.

Just a dream... just a dream...

A foolish decision he soon realised, for the hiding knife had conveniently disappeared and he found himself instead hunched over in the pool, unable to remove his arm.

'Save usssssss...' his family moaned.

Just a dream! Just a dream!

He closed his eyes as their scarlet hands groped his face. He pushed what felt like an arm away but his attacker hardly seemed to notice and he quickly found himself staring at his reflection in the bloody pool. Talon had never known his face to look so cruel, leering back at him as his nose loomed closer to the surface. The ripples made his face writhe into terrifying shapes, stretching his skin, elongating his jaw, sharpening his teeth... and then... it was still.

All was silent.

Talon's reflection glared back scornfully.

'Save them,' his reflection sneered.

A shove plunged Talon headfirst into the blood.

Finally, he screamed.

*

Talon gasped sharply. Greedily he gulped down all the air he could down by the wooden floorboards he'd fallen onto.

Once he'd caught his breath, he rolled over on his back, wincing as his wounded side met the cold floor, and drew an arm over his damp forehead. The sleeve was soaked, much the same as the rest of the nightshirt, which had to be peeled off before it could be tossed aside.

The room he found himself in was small, enough so that one candle, wick half-burnt, cast a warm amber glow about the floorboards. Small enough that the shadows were sent scurrying to the far corners of the cabin. Small enough that it could barely fit the table and stool squeezed next to his bed, not to mention the dusty black chest tucked underneath. Atop the table, a scroll of parchment had been left unfurled.

Had someone left him a message?

Putting aside the fleeting memory of his bloody nightmare, Talon crawled over to the desk, doing his utmost to ignore the feeling of a dozen needles burrowing in his side. Taking a deep breath, he then placed a hand on top of the stool, counted to three, and arched his back.

He swore... loudly.

Hopeful that his first cry hadn't woken the entire ship, he settled onto the stool and pulled the parchment towards him.

The handwriting was mellifluous – filled with soaring letters that curled and flowered over the parchment. He had never realised it was possible to make mere words look so beautiful. Yet certain words looked darker, as though they'd been hammered in rather than coaxed into the parchment as the others.

You'll find your mother's cloak in the chest below. Don't take it out, not if you wish your life be forfeit in Clovaine.

'My life be forfeit?'  What was so bloody dangerous about the half-cloak?

If you break those stitches again, farmboy, I'll get The Captain to find me a man with the shakiest hands to put you back together next time.

Talon snorted. That sounded like Cleo.

Rest.

The final word of the girl's letter felt more like instruction than suggestion.

'Rest...' Talon muttered to himself in annoyance.

Convincing himself that he was going back to bed out of his own choice, Talon rose again with a choked gasp and ambled slowly away from his desk.

He prayed his dreams would be kinder to him this time.