Eleven Pipers Piping by Karter Mycroft

I raise my flute with trembling hands, rattling my shackles. The others blow in harmony, all shivering, some crying as we slog through another piece.

The man holding the chains scowls.

“Stop dragging.”

I play faster. It is so cold I start choking.

He jerks my bonds, sending me tumbling over the music stand.

“I said stop dragging. Play in time or I’ll start making cuts.”

Tears freeze on my cheeks. I cannot remember when we started playing.

“How much longer?”

His scowl turns upward. He gestures to the corpse at his side.

“Until my love says you can stop.”