The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Father Steadman rubbed his fingers deep into the fraught arms of his chair.

The gaunt, pensive faces of his colleagues huddled around his desk in a tense silence; the bright cheering crackle and blaze of his fire seemed badly at odds with the solemn, brooding atmosphere and somehow it had entirely failed to warm the chill which ran through him.

He let out a slow breath.

A dry reticence stuck to the back of his throat - perhaps some of his warming ruby wine might help? But surely this was a time for clear heads and minds.

The Pleiad had come to him for leadership and answers - but what could he do?

He could not fight these witches - his old sword would not defend him against their insidious magik.

And there were no reserve troops to call upon, no chance to swing the battle late on in the weary day - he had trusted the abilities of the Harmonist and deployed all his forces in one bold counter-offensive.

The glum listless faces of his colleagues stared at the mute floor or directly at him - clearly they had not been sleeping either - but could they afford the luxury of sleep now? Or ever again?This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

And in any case, now was not the time to rest, but to take decisive action - if only his jaded mind could think of a solution.

“Then all is lost! We are undone!” Odal broke the suppressed gloom.

“Nothing can save us now,” Rowe sipped at his wine. “It was the Harmonist or nothing.”

“Even if we flee, where could we go?” Fencliffe asked. “Where would we be safe from these flying menaces?”

“Our glorious Church is ended!” Odal wailed.

“No, gentlemen!” Caldor said. “I refuse to accept that the Great Surrounder, in all his mighty wisdom, has meant such a thing to befall his most beloved worshippers.”

“But these events do seem to tie in with the research of brother Lanqvist…” Byram suggested.

Steadman allowed his eyes to wander to his right. Lanqvist sat back, deep into his chair; his supporting staff seemed frail and impotent, his long white hair had lost its lustre.

“No! We cannot just accept such a terrible fate,” Rowe took another sip of wine. “There must be some way to fight back?”

“But none of the magikants survived!” Odal proclaimed. “Surely we are all doomed!”

“Not even his apprentices lived,” said Byram. “Of course, there are still the students at Puristad, but they are still under tutelage, and none are yet of sufficient ability or wisdom to perform the Spell.”

“We are lost!” Odal wailed.

Steadman gripped the arms of his chair; he could not afford to allow the Pleiad itself to fall into despair - who would assist the people if their leaders were lost to hopelessness?

A good general must command - even if this meant using unorthodox methods.

“But gentlemen,” he interrupted, “there is still one we know of who would be powerful enough to cast the Spell and save us - if we could reach him in time…”

“Surely you cannot mean…” Caldor’s dark eyes flashed at him.

“Yes - he would appear to be our only hope now…” Steadman replied solemnly.

“But not after last time?” Caldor’s body twitched, ready to stand from his chair.

“Not after what happened?” said Fencliffe.

“Do we still even know how to contact him?” asked Byram.

“I had, of course, not foreseen such momentous events,” said Steadman, “but I thought it would be wise to keep a watch on one as powerful as he. I have had various reports of sightings over the years - we should at least try to contact him - what other choice do we have?”

“He is the only one capable of helping us now,” Lanqvist leant forward in his chair and stared at them earnestly from under his bushy eyebrows. “That is, of course, if he is prepared to come here and help us at all…”

A soothing ripple of relief calmed through Steadman’s body. If he had Lanqvist in his reserves, he could certainly pacify and persuade the others.

“And perhaps in the meantime we should begin preparations for an evacuation?” Fencliffe suggested.

“Yes,” Odal agreed. “I’m sure we would all be safer at Sannville - at least it’s further away from the forest where these creatures seem to dwell.”

“Perhaps some of our more precious artefacts could be transported there?” Rowe offered.

Caldor’s chair scraped as he stood and harangued the room.

“But what sort of message would that send to our congregation?” he asked. “They would assume we were afraid, that we were abandoning them, that our faith in the Surrounder had waned. How would we ever regain our authority over them if we allowed such a thing to occur?”

This truly was a most unusual meeting - even the black-robed priest had proved himself to be useful - however inadvertently.

“Yes gentlemen,” Steadman agreed, “we must stay put for now. We must be ready to lend support and strength to our flock if they need us - there can be no talk of leaving. And also, if our messenger is successful, we must remain here and be ready to meet our… guest.”

The members of the Pleiad murmured to their neighbours; it seemed that his suggestion held sway for now - it gave them some sort of battle plan, a hope, a fighting chance at least.

The noise grew and thawed the room.

The fire sparked brightly once more.

Rowe leant towards the desk for another glass of wine.

“Well,” Caldor concluded through the background rumble, “I have important Treasury business to attend to - but it seems, as ever, that we must trust in the tireless wisdom of the Surrounder to provide and protect us all.”

Odal and Fencliffe also stood to make their departures.

Steadman observed the black-robed priest carefully as he held out his hand.

He could not detect the merest trace or glimmer of artifice about the cleric - and yet somehow his office always seemed so much more comfortable whenever Caldor was not in it.