Page 33 of The Shadow of Breninsol
“We need you for the Scrimban trials.”
Eleanor listened for the signs of the city guard arriving to break up this drunken brawl, but she didn’t hear a group of horses coming charging towards them, nor the heavy in-time stomping of a patrol. She only heard the drunken insults thrown at the men in front of her and the constant noise coming from Barrow’s main street. Perhaps it was too far into the Barrow or too late for the guards to care about what happened on the streets? Such a crowd should have alerted them, yet she heard nothing. Hidden in the shadows of the back street, she waited and watched the unfolding quarrel, remaining certain that the city guard could appear at any moment.
A faint dripping sound drew her attention from the drunken slurs being flung back and forth between the two men and their respective supporters, to the slowly drying black paint on the wall opposite her. As Eleanor read the writing, she felt the hollow pit beckon inside her and swallowed uncomfortably. She pushed off the stone wall, and realised someone had recently painted it, judging by its wetness and the fresh scent of paint she'd only just noticed. Eleanor glanced up the alley, confirming that there was nobody was around; whoever painted this must have already left in a direction opposite to where she had just arrived from.
It was nothing new, having already witnessed this kind of writing in Breninsol, but she still expected the city guard’s full force to descend upon her. She’d seen the writing on a wall when she’d first arrived in the city, which had said “protect yourselves”, and she’d foolishly thought it had referred to being vigilant. However, upon hearing the gossip tonight, she had this unerring suspicion this writing was about witches. Tonight’s wall writing was a new phrase. It was a variation of what she'd previously seen and dismissed. As she read it again to commit the phrase to memory, realisation sunk in and a coldness washed over, so cold that if magic had existed like it once had, she’d have thought ice was running through her.
It wasn’t written in Solacian. It was a strange mix; the first part was in Solacian, but the main word was her native language. The language, like her kind, had been stamped out and eradicated. It was a language that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore, just like magic. It’d barely taken a king’s reign to see to that. Anyone caught speaking this ancient language during the Witch Hunter King’s reign was immediately declared a witch and killed. Despite all the horrors and pains to eradicate this language from the world, she was now reading it hastily painted onto the backstreets of Breninsol.
Protect your glow.
Shouts and yells brought her attention back to the drunken altercation happening in the street. The situation had escalated to include the pub-goers who were ringing them and goading from both sides.
Eleanor shook herself as if that’d help to shake off the strange choice of words painted on the wall.
It doesn’t mean anything. There’s a reasonable explanation for this: just someone messing around, making a joke.
Yet, a small inner voice recalled Linnet’s necklace with the Air symbol and the candid conversation she had just overheard in Rummers.
The writing on the wall simply strengthened Eleanor’s resolve to have a proper fight. She still had time, she knew her mark wouldn’t be leaving the pub yet. Her pace faltered as she went to join in with the drunken pub fracas. Two cloaked figures left the pub and avoided the chaotic fray that she was still tempted to join. That wasn’t enough to stop her mid step, but the grip the larger figure had around the smaller cloaked figure’s arm was. Eleanor wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except for the pair’s timing of leaving the pub, using the confusion of the tussle to their advantage. Even though she couldn’t see their faces, their mannerisms showed through their cloaks. They were hunched over, attempting to appear small and inconspicuous, while the smaller figure struggled to pull away from the larger one. As the couple turned into the side street, a glint of silver in the larger figure’s free hand caught the pub’s lights.
Eleanor sighed, knowing she couldn’t join in the random brawl now. She stayed tight to the walls of the neighbouring buildings and slipped through the shadows after the pair.
As she passed the intensifying fight unnoticed, she heard the definitive crack of a bone breaking. A garbled, howling rage that only an inebriated person could make followed her as Eleanor trailed down the darkened back street. She was careful to remain on silent feet, avoiding the broken and discarded bottles and glass. The pair had stopped further down the alley, which made her slow her pursuit and kept close to the wall.
The smaller figure’s cloak had slid off her head, uncovering the grimy face of a girl who stood with her back to the wall. Eleanor struggled to hear what the cloaked figure, larger and taller, was saying as yells and shouts filled the air behind her.
Eleanor edged closer, keeping herself low and tight to the wall, and stayed in the cloaked assailant’s blind spot for as long as possible.
“I told you. I don’t know,” the girl whimpered.
Eleanor couldn’t hear the response. It was muffled by their hood pulled low over their head, much like her own.
The situation gave her no indication the girl entered the dark alley willingly, the girl’s shaking hands and voice revealing her unwillingness to remain in this situation. Especially when she heard the response from the smaller figure as a small “please.” It was all she needed to hear to act.
Eleanor flicked her Attarician blade from her thigh and held it to the assailant’s throat. “You were asked nicely. I won’t be so nice,” Eleanor said, pitching her voice low.
The cloaked figure froze. They hadn’t heard her approach and hadn’t thought anyone would follow them. They’d got cocky, thinking this would be easy, not considering that she was roaming the streets tonight.
“Now I’ve got your attention. Raise the knife nice and slow,” Eleanor commanded, pressing her blade closer into his neck to make her point.
The girl’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Easy,” a gruff voice said, “was only having a chat, that’s all.”
Eleanor wasn’t going to indulge this thug in a conversation, and he let out a low hiss in response to her blade breaking his skin.
“Drop it,” she growled at him.
“Fucking witch,” he cursed, but slowly raised his hands, revealing the short knife.
The idiot had thought her threat was meaningless. Eleanor kept the pressure on his neck, letting a small trickle of blood spill. He dropped the knife in alarm, the clattering of the steel weapon echoing against the stone.
“Back up.” Eleanor growled, annoyed that the noise might have attracted some unwanted attention. She kept an eye on the pair while listening to sounds coming from the alley entrance. That was the last thing she needed tonight, someone thinking she was the perpetrator. She didn’t fancy scaling the walls. In the surrounding buildings, there were few places to grip and climb, and the draining pipes were not strong enough to support her weight. The pub and its ceramic pipes were as equally old.
“He hurt you?” Eleanor asked the girl, standing rigidly by the brick wall, her eyes fixed on the man’s face.
Eleanor was about to say more when the man slowly stepped back from the girl and the wall, his gloved hands raised. He turned to face her, the person who posed the biggest threat.
