The Fickle Winds of Autumn
22. Through the Vennel

A shock of terrified adrenaline spiked through Kira. She turned and urged her weary limbs to run. She clattered after the boy as best she could, hurtling down the dim, narrow alley.

“It’s her! Grab that girl!”

The ireful echo of Borwick’s voice chased her menacingly; two sets of heavy footsteps thumped and hunted behind.

The boy grabbed and yanked her into the doorway of a shop. The seeping wounds across her ankles tore and bled under the sudden unexpected trauma of this change of direction; her face contorted in pain; she stifled her cry - her rattling lungs could not afford to waste the precious oxygen. She must not be caught.

The small cramped shop was filled with rows of bottles and clay pots; the uncertain shelves wobbled precariously as she darted and wove her way after her young guide.

The startled merchant looked up from his counter; he flashed an angry fist at them.

“Oi! Mind my jars! Get out of here, yer little brats!”

He stood and moved towards his precious wares, spreading his arms wide along the shelves, determined to hold back the rippling wake of chaos she had caused.

But there was no time to apologise or be polite.

The panic thudded through Kira’s chest; her breath rushed and gasped in thick spasms.

She raced on behind the boy; her legs trembled and teetered past the jostling crowded aisles towards the rear door.

A thunderous smash of glass and pottery drove an insidious turbulent shudder through her - the slavers were rampaging through the shop, their clumsy shattering crashes pursued her violently.

The boy charged at the exit, shoulder first, without even pausing to try the handle.

Kira’s terrorized heart sank as the door seemed to burst out onto a dead end, hemmed in by the blank rear walls of several densely packed shops and houses.

The splintering shards fragmented and scattered behind her; the distraught merchant screamed out profane curses; the bulky footsteps hammered closer, faster.

The boy grabbed her flagging body and dragged her through the doorway, along a flimsy, narrow gap between the cramped and crowded buildings; her legs shrieked in pain; her wounds oozed and wept; she hobbled along behind the boy as fast as she could. Her nose grazed past the damp exterior walls; the foisty smell of brick-dust and whitewash gripped her. She squeezed down the slender passageway behind the boy; her aching limbs trembled and faltered; the driving impetus of the initial escape began to wear thin; she could not keep up this pace for much longer.

She drove herself forward and glanced behind - the slavers had turned their broad shoulders and shuffled along the restrictive width of the vennel sideways, relentless in their pursuit.

Her clumsy knees caught the rough walls and gouged off several tender layers of skin.

“I… I can’t!” she cried, sickened with the desperate frustration of her own weakness. A shallow, hopeless sweat prickled through her.

The boy twisted his head towards her.

“Just a little further!” he urged.

A fierce ringing pain bruised out from Kira’s buckling legs; the threats and curses of the slavers reverberated along the steep, constricting walls just behind her.

She hobbled and stumbled; the malevolent threat of re-capture haunted her turbulent, terrified mind. Just ahead, a brighter patch of sky glowed over the dim alley; she gasped down the stale, mouldy air. The tight, subdued vennel suddenly opened into a small enclosed courtyard encircled by the rear of several buildings.

The boy hauled her across the yard and pushed her down into a large pile of straw behind some barrels.

“Quick! Hide here!” he panted beneath his breath.

He covered her in straw, then burrowed in next to her.

A chicken squawked in a loud fury of feathers and bitterness, then ran off.

The dry, dusty straw enveloped her.

A goat, tethered to a rusty hook on the wall, bleated contentedly and continued munching at the straw on the ground in front of it. The sharp smell of its dung and matted fur hung thickly in the air.

Kira collapsed gratefully into the soft, stale refuge; her ankles and calves burned in pain; her fatigued breath rasped through her chest; a sinister empty despair agitated through her weary thoughts and body.

Perhaps it would be better if they caught her?

A swift merciful death might be preferable to the writhing agony of her legs and lungs?

But if they did recapture her, she could be certain that her death would not be swift - or merciful.

The heavy echoing footsteps of the slavers chased towards the courtyard from the vennel.

Her companion pressed his finger to his lips, but Kira’s anxious stomach churned, already aware of the precarious danger they now faced. She clasped her hand across her mouth to dampen the volume of her raucous lungs, and squeezed herself down, flat beneath the covering straw.

The bulky boots of the slavers scrunched and halted just beyond the barrels in front of her.

“Which way now, boss?” Dak asked. “Did you see which way they went?”

“No! Curse the Surrounder’s dandruff! But they must be down one of these exits.”

Kira clung to her frightened breath; the sharp prickles of straw dug and stung into her wounds. She bit down on her lips, determined not to cry out, but certain that the slavers must hear the panicked thump resounding through her hollow chest.

The thick, agitated gasps of the slavers did not move; their boots crunched on the dirty cobbled surface.

The goat bleated and munched.

Kira’s lungs wrenched and called urgently for some air; she fought her instincts back, certain that any moment would bring her last taste of freedom and life.

If they searched the yard, they were sure to replace her.

Her apprehensive stomach tightened and clenched.

The unknowing silence overwhelmed her, pinning her in place as it dragged across a tortuous life-time.

Chilled shivers tingled through her strained body.

She must breath; she would suffocate like this.

“You go up there.” Borwick’s gruff voice broke the painful tension. “And I’ll take this one - we’ll meet back in the town centre - shout if you spy them!”

Their heavy steps melted off in different directions; the chickens squabbled and clucked; the goat chomped and munched.

Kira let out a huge gasp and sucked in a deep breath; the grateful blood returned to her relieved body.

The boy pushed a cautious hand through the rustling straw and peered out.

“All clear - they’ve gone,” he said. He dug himself out of their hiding place and helped her exhausted, trembling body to sit.

She coughed the gritty dust from her mouth and brushed the irritating straw from her face and hair.

The blood still pounded through her ears from exertion and fear and relief.

“I can’t move yet. I must rest - it’s my legs…” she said.

The boy glanced down each of the exits.

“We can’t stay here - they’ll be back - we must move now.”

He offered a helpful hand towards her.

“I’ll take you to my master’s house - you’ll be safe there.”

He was right.

She was not out of danger yet.

She must try to keep moving.

Her reluctant limbs strained to get up; she crumpled back down and accepted that she would need his assistance.

His strength hauled her up; her feeble legs shivered and stumbled; she hobbled along behind the boy in silence, listening acutely for footsteps, as they moved back along the same vennel that had brought them into the yard; her nervous eyes scanned for the danger of familiar silhouettes.

“Don’t worry, I know these streets well,” the boy reassured her. “I’ll keep us to the alleys and vennels - it will be a bit further to walk, but there’s less chance of bumping into your friends.”

She followed closely through the wandering dim alleyways - some were cobbled, many were just dirt and puddles and mud. The maze of dense, high-sided buildings loomed in over her; she struggled to tell if it was day or night, or which direction they were travelling. The close, tight walls reminded her of the convent cloisters; her anxious shoulders relaxed into place.

The boy often dashed a little ahead and peered around a sharp corner and check the way was clear; Kira’s legs throbbed in continual torment, even at this more cautious, gentle pace; she lent on the airless, unfeeling bricks and stones for support.

The narrow streets widened; the late afternoon sun crept down and warmed her back.

She edged out, past a final building; the colours changed abruptly to greens and open yellows. A hedge-lined wagon-lane wound through the stubbled fields which stretched away before her.

There was no sign of any cottage - how much further could it be?

The boy looked guardedly behind them.

“We’ll be exposed out in these fields,” he said, “there won’t be anything to hide behind if we’re spotted, so we’ll need to keep moving.”

Kira winced and staggered on beside her young companion.

“Come on - not far now,” he urged.

She plodded on a few more weary steps.

“I’m Ellis, by the way,” said the boy.

“I’m Kira,” she said. Her voice sounded thin and strange. She fought to gather her remaining strength and paused to face her benefactor.

“Thank you - thank you so much,” she said.

“That’s ok. I’m glad I could help,” he smiled.

Kira grimaced and battled to resume walking; her legs wobbled, soft and spongy beneath her; she stumbled on for a few ungainly steps, then collapsed onto the grass verge.

“It’s no use,” she said, “I must rest here.”

The boy looked back nervously towards the town.

“No,” he urged in a solemn tone. “We can’t risk them searching along these roads. We’re not safe yet. My master’s house is just at the end of this lane. We must press on until we get there. He’s a kind man and a skilful healer. He will tend your wounds with far more ability than any I have.”

He reached out his hand towards her.

“Here,” he said, “put your arm around my shoulders. I’ll take your weight. It’s just a little further.”

Kira pursed her lips and searched for some words.

She was reluctant to rest her whole weight on him - supposing she broke him somehow!

But he had been brave and kind to help her.

And also, after weeks with the slavers without bathing, trudging through the mud and dung of the roads, she suddenly became aware of how badly she must have smelt.

The burning agony in her legs told her not to move.

But she was too weak to think properly or argue about it now.

And she knew he was right - this was indeed no place to be caught.

“Come on, we must move,” her companion insisted. “We can’t just stop here - they’re sure to catch us.”

Her limp muscles ached as she reached up reluctantly for his hand; he pulled her to her feet and positioned her arm around his neck and shoulders.

A wave of clumsy embarrassment at her reliance on him flooded over her, but it was tempered by a relieved gratitude for his help.

They hobbled on awkwardly together for a few paces; the throbbing pain from her depleted legs gnawed constantly at her enfeebled body.

Her unwilling feet refused to obey her and started to drag, catching the surface of the lane and causing them both to stumble and jolt off-balance.

Her thoughts wandered; she could no longer focus on walking; she struggled to make out the swirling, drifting road as it floated beneath her legs. Her eyes blinked and closed; their oppressive weight made them far too heavy to hold open.

Her escape from the slavers, the danger to her life; her hopes of freedom, the convent, the nuns - all seemed so distant and unimportant now.

Her energy and movement ebbed away; her mind ceased to concentrate and drifted in directions of dreams she could not control; a swirling blackness enveloped her and dragged her, lurching, into a deep abyss, all sound and sensation gone.