This was written for Cracked Flash Fiction last week. The first two sentences were the prompts. It’s again a snippet of story set in Airtha-Eyrassa. To read more fiction set in this world, follow the links below the story.
The sword fell out of her hand. It was over. The blade clattered on the slate floor as she stepped further back into the small healer’s cottage, her head brushing against the many bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The villagers were close and a locked door would not bar them when they were seeking the blood of the one they believed killed the Elder Lord.
Voices shouting for her head at last got her feet to move and she rushed to the trunk where she kept her hiding cloak. None of the villagers had Ruon blood, of that she was sure. None of the villagers would be able to see her once she donned the charm-covered cloak, not even in broad daylight.
Fists pounded at the door as she threw the strap of her work bag over her shoulder, donned the cloak and drew the hood over her head with trembling hands. Fear burned the back of her throat.
The small window next to the door smashed. The smell of acrid smoke filled the air along with obscenities hurled by loud voices. Still they hammered at the door. It was too late.
She wanted to explain to them that she had not killed the man, that someone had lain a dark charm on him, one she could not break in time. But she’d heard what had happened to other Ruon thought to be practising dark art. She would not die today.
She shoved her bed to one side, lifted the small trapdoor in the floor and slipped into the tunnel beneath. She scurried along it for what seemed like an eternity before she reached the end of the tunnel and ran, unseen, into the woods. Behind her the hateful voices faded away. Today she would live.