by Unknown
“He’s going to break the door,” Cervis gasped, his tone a whimper. Dust frantically blew about the room, hindering their sight further.
“Rian!” Sully cried, her eyes wide and water filled. She stumbled towards the hole, searching for signs he was safe. She fell to her knees and gripped the corners of the tiny opening. “I don’t know if I can do this!” she screamed down to him.
A giant crunch behind them saw an axe head destroy the top edge of the doorway, bits of wooden shrapnel flying haphazardly. Sully muffled a scream with her hands. Phillipe grasped her hands with his, ensuring she was quiet. He turned to Cervis, who was frozen in terror.
“Get in the crawlspace!” Phillipe ordered.
Cervis didn’t move.
“Cervis!” Phillipe snapped, “listen to me! Drag the peasant man with you and get down into the space now!”
---
Peering out the side of the market stall, Röark made sure the surrounds were clear. The two ladies had now disappeared over the hill, and there was no one else in sight. If he made his way down the dirt road towards the cheese mill, he could cut through the farmlands and reach Mihaela’s cottage. The moon peeked through dense cloud, a luminous white glow accenting the outline of the Cindrel Mountains.
Taking a deep breath to force courage, he darted from the market stall and down the dirt road. With quick steps, he quickly spanned the deserted farmlands, jumping the decrepit wire fences one by one. Nearby, lambs bleated, airing dismay at being disturbed from tranquil grazing. Röark’s feet sunk in the tall grass, the blades slicing his knees. He jumped a fallen log, before kneeling beside the giant oak towering Mihaela’s cottage. He was short of breath, the intense agony in his chest causing dizziness.
The surrounding pastures were empty, not a villager in sight. Wincing in discomfort, he pulled himself up using the immense trunk of the tall oak, and hobbled over towards Mihaela’s doorway, hand gripped against his injured chest.
Then, in the corner of his right eye, he picked up subtle movement.
A grey blur, less than half a mile away, in a pasture to the east. At first he thought it was a cow, but the moonlight broke from its cloudy prison and bathed the area in a haunted glow. A soft, cool wind swept past him, its welcome touch comforting. It rattled the wind-chimes hanging from the porch, their melancholy chimes echoing. Pausing, Röark peered out across the vast pastures, leaning against the dilapidated wooden panelling of Mihaela’s cottage. It was not a cow that had drawn his attention, but a lone figure. Wiping sweat from his brow, he squinted, unsure if he was hallucinating. The tall, slim figure was flawlessly still, dressed head to toe in grey.
The distance and darkened sky dampened the view, and Röark was unable to make out the figure’s face, but there was no mistake the slim onlooker was staring right at him. He soon realised it was the same man from his house.
Placing a bowler hat on his head, the figure drew what appeared to be a surgical needle – similar to what Röark’s mother used on the neighbours cattle to calm them down whenever the dogs were close.
The man remained motionless, the gentle breeze from the mountains flapping his waistcoat tails, his bowler hat perfectly positioned on his head. Creeping slowly along the wall of Mihaela’s cottage, Röark kept his eyes on the inanimate figure.
When he reached the bulky brimstone steps that rose to the front door, Röark spotted Mihaela’s neighbour, Ms Küvler, watering herbs that ran along her windowsill, humming peacefully. Röark hesitated for a moment. An odd sight, watering herbs in the darkness.
“Ms Küvler?” muttered Röark, a manner of desperation in his voice, “do you know who that man is?”
She ceased her humming, and slowly looked up. Her expression turned puzzled, her lip scowled.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she quizzed with an unusually raspy sneer, “who are you? Are you here to rob from me? I’ll get the guard! Shoo! Shoo!”
She flung the tiny watering can at him, to which he easily dodged, moving aside to let it land in the soft grass by his feet. Röark glared at her, confused.
She didn’t recognise him.
Slamming his body against Mihaela’s door, he forced himself inside screaming her name, desperate to find her. When there was no answer, he screamed her name again. It was the largest house in the village, passed down through generations within her family. After Mihaela’s mother had passed from illness, Mihaela and her father used the old pantry in the western corner of the house to create a small shrine in her remembrance. Röark rushed past the kitchen, into the tiny make-shift shrine where a single candle flickered atop a table, a crusted dead rose beside it.
He heard footsteps behind him. The front door slammed.
Clenching his fists, he bounding towards Mihaela’s father’s sleeping quarters, but he was met by a familiar face, standing inside by the front door.
“She isn’t here,” the well-dressed man from his house said, the pendant around his neck swirling a mustard yellow colour. He removed the bowler hat from his head solemnly.
“You!” snapped Röark amid a fluster of panic, “you again!”
The well-dressed man lifted a syringe filled with a light blue liquid.
“I thought I’d follow you here,” he said, “I think we need to have a conversation.”
“What have you done with her?” cried Röark, clenching his fists, a searing headache blurring his vision.
“I am trying to help you. You must let me help you.”
“Why are you here?” Röark asked, falling to his knees, “why have you taken my mother?” He felt weak, defeated. His knees buckled painfully against the stone floor.
“I am not guilty of anything,” the man challenged, seemingly finding the notion amusing, “but I can’t promise the same of anyone else. You see, there are people of this village who have not embraced the sanctifications that Aevum’s teachings seeks to bless us. And it seems nor have you. Aevum is our saviour, not our burden.”
“But, I don’t know what Aevum is,” Röark whimpered pityfully, “are you responsible for the forest? The trees, they’re dead.”
“Not dead,” the man said calmly, flicking the needle, “just without life. The life they had is now fed elsewhere. For the rebirth of Asag Ovrai, to be precise.” He then smiled a forced, crooked grin, his teeth impeccably white. He nodded slightly, as though he was acknowledging someone behind Röark.
Suddenly Röark felt a heavy blow to his head from behind, colliding with the back of his skull. He fell to the floor, blood spraying across the stone.
CHAPTER 8.
Inside the church that lay atop the hill, the townsfolk of Orlat congregated. With a sense of excitement, they chattered and laughed, sung and praised. The church pews full, they cheered and clapped. The church had never been this full. Happy songs filled the air, gleeful chatter exchanged amongst the people.
Appearing from the back of the church and gliding towards the cloth covered table was Arkayis. His movement was effortless, cloaked head to toe in an orange silk gown, exquisite pearls and diamonds flanking the collar, a bone coloured shawl donning the back. The people inside roared with excitement. Holding a reliquary above his head, he shook it with force, placing it on the giant table in front of him. A small glass container wrapped in gold, it was the relic of their almighty faith, Aevum.
“Kiss it!” Arkayis roared in demand, “kiss it and you will be saved!”
Again, the room erupted in a furious praise of shouts and admiration.
“You are all sons and daughters of Aevum. You are all blessed,” Arkayis announced, as the shouting died off so they could listen, “you are all blessed with new beginnings, of an actuality and understanding of the faith that no one else can truly comprehend.”
“The Grand Hall!” someone in the audience bellowed, “when do we go to the Grand Hall?”
“In due time,” Arkayis nodded in declaration, a wicked smile brandished across his face, “in due time. But let us not digress. Let us
not fall into distraction. I gather you here today, as I have bleak news that sheds ill repute on your faith. There has been a vicious attempt to hinder our journey. This is news that hurts me, and therefore you, the followers of Aevum.”
“A Censu!” cried someone else, near the back, “an infidel! Burn them!”
The church mass burst out into a sickening chant, calling for blood. Arkayis felt his supremacy rising. His soul grew strong, fuelled by the belief of these people. He felt a sense of untouchable power like no other. His influence was pandemic.
“It is true. I have unearthed a Censu, hiding in this very village!” he announced in revulsion, “Aevum helped me to find her, and put a stop to her intended bloodshed on our freedom and our faith.”
Outstretching his arms, Arkayis summoned his two giant guards via a minor flick of his finger. They both appeared, dragging a badly beaten Mihaela by her lifeless arms. Bruises covered her face and body, her clothes torn.
“I tried to give this Censu filth mercy,” Arkayis pleaded to the raging mob of people in the church, “I offered her a justifiable path into righteousness with the teachings of Aevum, but the evil inside her wouldn’t let me. She refused to speak. So now, she must be sacrificed.”
The amassed broke out into cries of exhilaration, waving their arms in anticipation, the sound deafening. Arkayis’s two guards flung Mihaela onto the table in front of him. Her motionless torso bounced across the stone table, sliding to a cruel halt beside Arkayis, who glared at her unresponsive body with disgust. The roars of the crowd continued.
Regaining consciousness, Mihaela opened her eyes to a crowd of cheering and bloodthirsty townsfolk. People she used to know. People she used to trust. Now, they were a sea of angry faces, chanting, calling for her execution.
Why? Why had this happened? Why had they forsaken her?
All she could hear was their chanting. The words Arkayis spoke were unrecognisable to her. She lay still, having given up any chance of escape. She was so brutally beaten, she couldn’t move. She felt so weak and so alone.
She thought of her father. She missed him dearly. Where was he?
She thought of Cervis, did he know what was going on? Was he okay? Did he suffer the same fate?
Then she thought of Röark. How she loved Röark. How she cherished their time in the meadows, and by the lake. How she missed the times they would spend together.
She knew she would never see any of them again.
Then, amongst the angry crowd, she saw a face - a face of someone who was not cheering, the stern face of someone who was not mercilessly begging for her to be sacrificed. His face was plastered in concern, grief and pity. His features were unassuming and dark, but he was certainly not one of them. A single tear formed in his eye, and he pressed a finger to his lips, urging her to keep her discovery of him a secret.
But she never had time to react, and her vision was cut short.
Arkayis plunged a dagger deep into her abdomen, cruelly ripping it open. He slashed at her over and over, spraying blood in a vicious display of carnage. The screams and cheers of elated bloodthirsty townsfolk echoed vibrantly throughout the church.
CHAPTER 9.
Excerpt (4). - Dr. Hyclid Van Wëegan’s transcripts, dated circa September 1349;
My account of the past few weeks is quite hazy. I grow weary of the dead, their bodies piled in recklessly open graves, remains pilfered by wild dogs and other unseen animals that rue the night. I grow tired of the constant stench in the air, a lingering odour of perpetual death, over and over, village after village. Is there no end in sight?
I am a day’s ride from Southampton, having joined a troop of Frenchman who landed from the Baltic Sea a few days ago, concluding their shipping trade indefinitely. They told stories of panic, of death. For them, it was too dangerous to continue. To me, they have been a Godsend. While I do not share my thoughts with them, I find solace in that their account of this horrendous illness is not a unique one. They too lay claim to the fact it was the hand of God who brought this calamity, that sinners ought be struck with ‘the great mortality’ or, more commonly versed to my new French companions, ‘the blue sickness.’ I have documented the many titles given to this illness, all linked to its symptoms. Yet none of them contain the word ‘death’, the most eventual symptom of all.
My French contingent plan to rest tonight by the towers of Mountcambria, sixty miles south of London. From all accounts, they too have been struck down with the blue sickness. Their terrified King has ordered any who display symptoms to give themselves up to have their heads removed. A rash quandary I imagine, so it is any wonder people are fleeing the city in droves. I might be able to help them when I arrive, for the day before last one of the French soldiers, Thomas, trusted me with some information regarding what he believed a cure to the blue sickness. He assures me, once we reach Mountcambria, we can use their dying to aptly test out his remedy. I am both pessimistic, yet hopeful. He seems to take assurance in the fact he himself has been cured, and that the remedy lies ‘where it is most dark, where the sorrows of light cannot gather’. For what this translates I am anxious to discover, but if it means I reach London with a cure, and meet with Cassandra, I can surely help her survive.
---
Having drifted in and out of consciousness, Röark was intermittently woken by the heavy rumble and the clackety-clack of steel on steel. An intense smell of coal inundated the air, along with the frustrated and concerned bleating of sheep and cattle. Gentle rocking would soothe him back to sleep, and before long, another sharp jerk and a screech of straining gears would startle him, awaking him from his slumber. Each time he opened his eyes, he was met with darkness. Cross-legged on a hard floor, something had been wrapped across his eyes; an old cloth he guessed, by the feel of the fabric. His mouth harboured an acidic residual after-taste, unable to be washed away by his repeated lip-licking. His hands were bound behind his back, tied together with chains which tore off layers of skin as he struggled. While his vision was disabled, one thing was for sure.
He was on a train.
Mihaela’s father often recounted tales of trains in the old country. How the rail network would transport coal between the three major cities, along with livestock to rural capitals and oil to the border of Romania and Hungary.
‘That’s because we can’t trust the Hungarians to use their own oil’, Mihaela’s father would mock with his raw, distinctive humour, ‘they might mistake it for their local cuisine’.
Röark had never seen a train, let alone been on board one. But he had heard a lot about them. Panting, he shook his head vigorously, trying to lure the cloth from his eyes. What he presumed were flustered cattle stomped the floor of the train, carpeted in hay, dirt and filth. The train jerked suddenly as it turned a corner, and the rattle of left-over coal rocks rolled along the floor, reaching the other end of the cabin with a thud.
Shaking his head, the cloth across his eyes loosened, falling into his lap. He paused, the gentle clackety-clack of the train and the placid calls of livestock humming in his ears.
Blinking rapidly, he let his eyes adjust.
His guess had been accurate – he was inside a train. It was a sizeable carriage, walls made of wood and metal, small jagged holes dotted across the wall. Bursts of sunlight flickering through as the train passed trees and mountains. Over in the far corner, two calves and a lamb hunched, shivering in fear. Hay and dirt littered the floor, accompanied by piles of black coal. The humidity in the enclosed carriage was extreme, his shirt stuck to his torso, plagued with sweat. Wiping moisture from his face, he pushed himself further against the wall, glancing around the cabin. Perspiration trickled down over his mouth, the salty flavour pleasurable against the awful metallic air. Each time the back of his head met with wood, the dry blood from his open wound on the back of his head would stick. His attention was drawn to his forearm, and a fierce stinging below his bicep. Glancing down, he noticed a small circular penetration, the skin around it swollen
and infected. The result of an injection.
Movement to his left caught his eye. Muffled sounds and scuffling from the opposite end of the stifling carriage caught his attention. He soon realised the carriage had more than a dozen people, all chained to the walls, all bound with chains. Men, women and children, with fear imbedded in their faces.
Röark froze in fear. He was so consumed in his own plight earlier, he’d failed to notice.
Most were naked, the few that were dressed covered in tattered clothing. None were blindfolded, but all were all chained to the wooden walls. They were covered in filth, remarkably skinny and malnourished. Most were battered, their faces black and bruised. Yet one man, in the very corner, was much larger than the rest. Covered in a woollen blanket, the goliath frame of what appeared to be a sleeping man remained still.
A clammy hand clutched Röark’s shoulder.
He spun in fright, slithering backwards, his bare feet skidding on the dirt and hay. He landed on various clumps of coal, burying deep into his thigh. He ignored the pain, staring at the assailant who had just grabbed him.
“Can you help us?” a frail bearded man questioned in English, arm still outstretched, his voice hoarse. The desperate old man was kneeling, his whole body shaking furiously. The hair on his head was all but sheared off, small clumps to the right side of his cranium sprouting like weeds. His face had two long scars than ran perpendicular down his face, through his eyes and all the way to the top of his chest. Wearing nothing but a rag around his waist, he grinned, displaying toothless gums. His beard practically covered his mouth.
“Help me,” he begged, this time in Hungarian. He retreated backwards, eyes locked on Röark. Turning quickly, he picked up something behind him, and made his way back towards Röark. He presented an apple as an offering, rotting and brown, lathered in maggots.