Short Story One: A Hearth And A Fire.

My first foray into writing. You have to start somewhere, eh?

He didn't want to die. He wished he wouldn't. Not tonight. Not yet. Never if he had his way. However, as is the way with these things, what you want and what you get are usually altogether different things. 

He tripped over a loose cobblestone and tumbled face first into a fetid puddle, his notched sword clattered into the shadows. Further down the alley the splash of booted feet echoed. They were almost upon him. He groaned, scrabbled on all fours until he was face to face with a rough brick wall. Hands raised in supplication, he swore to the highest he'd change. Let him live and he'd change his ways. He didn't know what he'd change. There was no shortage of change to be had but that didn't make the choosing easier. He'd find work. He'd never cheat at cards again…

"Wait, wait! This is all just a misunderstanding!" 

The biting blades disagreed. 

********

A formless haze spread into eternity and memories floated through the ether but could not be placed in time. Thoughts arose and slipped away like smoke on a breeze as he grasped for them. Only one rose from the depths and solidified. Am I dead?

As if in answer to his silent question a voice reverberated: it came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “That depends entirely upon your next decision." 

Brick by brick a circular courtyard rose from the gloam and a shadowed doorway slowly formed, beyond which lay a corridor made of grey stone. “Come, Skaffa. Let us speak.” 

 "Where am I?" 

“My doorstep. Come."  The voice pulled him, like a fish caught on a hook, and he made his cautious way down the dim lit passage, halting often until a wooden gate blocked his path. He reached a hand towards the brass handle but the door creaked open before he could touch it. Hearth light flickered sepia on the bare stone walls and a cloaked figure sat at a table with an open book on one side and a set of scales on the other. It poured a glass of wine as red as the fresh steaming blood of a lamb whose throat had been opened in sacrifice to an unseen and thirsty deity. “Come, sit.” 

“Who are you?” Skaffa hesitated on the threshold. A whisper arose behind him; a rustle of autumn leaves on a gentle breeze. It rose until it screeched like a winter storm in the high places of the world. Pitch dark rolled towards him, shapes darker than dark milled within; limbs, faces, muzzles, all strained desperately to break free of the viscous shadow which contained them. He slammed the door behind him, holding it shut with all his might and searched frantically for an exit. There was none. 

"Sit." The voice was firm, more substantial. It came from the figure now and not the air. Skaffa did not move, he stood holding the door fast with wild eyes. 

"They cannot enter here. Not unless I grant them leave. Now sit."

"Who are you?" Skaffa cringed and stepped away from the door, sat in the free chair. 

The shadow lowered it's hood, revealing parchment skin draped over a hairless head "I have many names." Sunken beetles eyes, deep as caves intruded. "But that would be telling"

"What do you want from me?”  

“A deal that would benefit us both. I want you to consider it and consider it carefully” 

“And if I refuse?”

He sipped his wine, placed a small hour glass that had hung from his neck on the table with a thin smile. “Your flesh will rot, your soul…" He smiled. "Your soul will be mine." 

Skaffa snatched the hourglass and turned it over. Time continued. He pounded the table. It toppled and rolled. The old man grabbed it and placed it calmly back in the center of the table. 

"I need an earthly representative." 

"What's in it for me?" 

"I thought that was at least partially clear..." He tapped a finger to the hourglass. "I can give you more time… more importantly I can give you a chance at redemption”

The old man leafed through the book that lay open on the table and clicked his tongue with a disappointed shake of his head. As if in answer, searing pain lanced through Skaffas chest, his stomach, his neck. Blood flowed through holes in his coat and leaked from his mouth. 

"I give you a chance to balance the book. An opportunity very few get."

He stood and Skaffa burst into flame. 

"This is what awaits your immortal soul."

A dark void opened in the ground before Skaffas chair and pale, spindled limbs crept and tugged and tore at his burning flesh. He tried to scream as a melting face with gaping mouth and myriad eyes pulled itself towards him. 

The old man offered a hand. "Will you work for me?" 

Skaffa reached like a drowning man. Took the cold hand and the torment stopped. The sand in the glass reversed its flow and Skaffa slumped in the chair, his shoulders shuddered whilst he sobbed his relief.  

"You are mine now, until you have balanced your account." 

At that, the room began to fade. The old man put the chained hourglass around Skaffas neck, stepped back and pulled a smoking sword from the flames of the hearth. 

"Take the sword. Work will find you."

The words echoed as the room and all it contained collapsed into a cloud of mist as the man sheathed the sword. 

Take the sword. Work will find you. 

Darkness fell.

***

The light of the afternoon sun peeked over thatched roofs. It pulled him from his slumber and seared his eyes. 

He was alive.

Against all hope.

Providence had heard his prayer and answered. He would soon find out that prayers, if answered at all, are rarely answered in the way one would expect; and rarer still in the way one wanted. 

He picked up the sword that lay steaming in its sheath beside him, buckled it to his belt and left the damp alley without a backwards glance and walked from the city, heading west, along the Old Queens Road. The icy wind whipped at the shredded tatters of his coat and chilled his unmarked flesh.