(Page 1 of 2) A Pie Best Served Cold by Mike HazelwoodSUMMARY: Entry for November Flash Fiction Contest. A Pie Best Served Cold
Serena had chewed her fingernails to the quick; now they bled, but she hardly noticed. Her lord, the rogue mage Rapier, was killing the land. The mage had succeeded somehow in tapping the well-spring of life and was greedily devouring it. The trees, soil in the fields, the running streams and even mankind were fading. The outer borders of the dying territory now stretched five leagues from the mage's stronghold and grew a little further every day. His appetite was insatiable. The strong maples of Serena's village had been breached, their leaves once lush and green were now laden with gold. It was only mid-summer, but soon they would be dead. So would her village.
Mages from the Citadel had vainly assailed Rapier's castle to bring an end to his madness and growing power. They now lay rotting outside in the bleak light. The castle lay largely in ruin, but neither his castle's near destruction nor the battle concerned him. For as Rapier consumed the life force so was he ravaged by that energy. Only by the drawing of more power was he able to stave off his own death.
"It's time," Serena whispered and squeezed the warding amulet the mage had given her, as if it would shield her further. It was her only protection against his leeching powers. She had been his favourite and now she was his last servant. She began the slow ascent of the only surviving castle turret. The stairway was dank and narrow. Sparse flickering light from the guttering torches seemed to form phantasms of shadow. Each careful step heightened her growing sense of dread. Holding fast to the curving outer wall her fingers traced the smooth stone, following it upwards. Sweat formed on her brow, despite the clammy cold, and stung her eyes. Reluctantly she stopped on one of the many crumbling steps, and quickly wiped at her forehead.
She fought to catch her breath but it felt as if a cooper had secured iron barrel hoops around the staves of her chest. Her insides threatened to go to water, but somehow the tray laden with a silver tea pot, baked meat pie and blunted knife remained level. It was a miracle that her hands did not shake. She could not spill the Master's meal, not this one. Not that he would eat much, often meals returned untouched these days. She prayed he would not notice the pie was cold; it had to be. Maybe the steam escaping the tea pot would mask the discrepancy.
The rest of the climb she managed quickly, gathering her strength. At the top of the stairs the thick iron bound door swept open before she could grasp the heavy ring. Stepping inside she stifled a gasp as goose flesh erupted on her arms. It was impossible to become familiar with Rapier's appearance; he now seemed more withered husk than man. He sat cross-legged in the center of a bright yellow prayer mat inscribed with black runes. A guttural chant greeted her, echoing throughout the chamber, rising and cresting like the tide. This sequence had been repeated for weeks. Serena doubted he even stopped to sleep any more. "Place the tray on the table, Serena, and leave." The voice forcefully projected into her thoughts and she could not recall the last time he had spoken to her with his voice.
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