by Unknown
My short time in Mountcambria revealed there are more than just I who seek the cure. The tales tell of the masked monks who escaped south, to build a City of God to block the path of the sickness. An old lady, naked as the day she was born and shivering in terror, spoke of their journey. She told how they emptied the library of books, drew contorted symbols outside the doorways to their churches, and then fled. She pleaded to go with them, but they heralded her a burden.
And now, there are hundreds of people walking the streets of Mountcambria lead by black-robed individuals, ringing tiny bells in their stride. They wear bone-coloured masks, with long, ugly beaks half a foot in length. It is said this is the way to communicate with God, to tell Him the sins of all humanity must be forgiven. Do they think these actions will retrench the pestilence?
I am unable to explain the true sense of desperation in people. They have such an urge to live, to keep going, even though their limbs fall from their bodies. They listen to every word I say, they do everything I ask. They eat what I tell them, they drink what I mix for them. They sing when I say, they dance when I say. And then they die. It’s fallible to think I have a grip over these people, their minds are simply clouded, their fates set. Their last hope lies with me, a healthy, travelling doctor from a tiny Carpathian village. I feel powerful, nay, invincible. They are sick, and I am not. I believe that I have been chosen to live on, immune to the blue sickness, to reach Cassandra. Maybe I truly am the answer, the cure to this abomination.
I am only half a day’s ride from the outskirts of London, and the banks of the famous Thames. The great poet Gilles Don Vadres once penned how the leafy shores of the Thames held the secrets to the afterlife. I am anxious to discover this myself.
Yet on this day, I am left with an inevitably rued decision. Thomas, one of my French colleagues and my closest companion, has convinced the troupe, and the city folk still healthy, to flee south to seek fortitude within the new City of God. I cannot ignore the evidence of his immunity to the sickness, perhaps as it is the same as mine. I do not want Thomas to leave, yet I cannot join him as I must go north, to Cassandra. Thomas is adamant he has been blessed with a miracle. Now that he has been cured of the sickness, he will find the answer to rid the world of the embroiled madness it was blamed for. This lunacy he speaks, he cannot help them, only I can help them.
On the rise of the sun just this morn, I found him standing by a pit filled with the dead, staring blankly into its depths. A man who was seldom philosophical, he asked me something that surprised me.
“Do you want to live forever?”
I sensed he asked it in a way that required no response. Did I want to live forever while the rest of the world is vanishing? I think not.
Yet, if Cassandra and I can live together forever, then the answer is most certainly yes.
That conversation was the last I had with Thomas. He, Rohal, and the rest of the brigade made haste south, guided by nothing more than a young herald boy, insistent of his knowledge of the sacred new city that was their destination.
And now I traverse alone, as I began, towards the city walls of London and the love of my life, Cassandra.
---
Shaking uncontrollably, Röark’s urge was to swing his mighty fist to fell the oncoming monster. His mother had always taught him to trust his instinct; you must trust your own heart, one must test if it’s made of glass, wood or fire, she would preach.
But his chains prevented movement. When he flung his arm, the chain tightened and almost crushed his wrist. He bellowed – a mixture of frustration, pain and terror.
The cannibal flickered his tongue obtrusively, yellow crooked teeth bared. Just a few feet away, Röark could smell his repulsive breath. White, cloudy foam appeared around his mouth, dripping to the floor, his eyes glassy and increasingly dilated. Spiralling red veins webbed his pupils.
Röark tugged on his chain, again and again, eyes locked on the monster. The rest of the prisoners had abandoned him, all cuddled up to the corners, wailing and crying. They had forsaken him, like everyone else. He had no one left. And now he was going to die at the hands of a beast from the sewers of Bucharest.
Then, as though he had chosen the moment due to the cannibal’s distraction, one of the prisoners closest to the door at the back flung himself into it, mercilessly cracking its base, splintering the centre of it. Again he leapt at it, desperate for escape.
The cannibal spun, also realising the leeway of escape.
Deserting Röark, he raced towards the door, ploughing into it. Shattering into thousands of pieces the door imploded, and within seconds the cannibal was gone.
Röark fell to his knees, an overwhelming sense of sadness gripping him. The will to continue was slipping away. He spluttered loudly in unrestrained frustration, battering the floor of the cabin in rage. He wailed again, and again, a bid to overcome his exhaustion and pain.
“Someone help us,” he wailed to himself, looking up at the roof.
The train flung around the corner, seemingly gaining speed. The already alarmed lamb and cattle skidded sideways and slammed against the opposite wall, crushing each other. The lamb bleated in pain, and fell to its knees. Frightened prisoners all ogled Röark, before one began a slow chant.
“Aevum,” he croaked, grasping the brandishing on his arm, “Aevum – Aevum - Aevum.”
Others joined in with deep, static calls; “Aevum - Aevum - Aevum.”
Soon, the entire assembly of chain-bound prisoners from the sewers of Bucharest were chanting the word Aevum, over and over.
Yet the old man beside Röark was not, his tiny frame still huddled in the corner, tucked away. Also watching Röark, he was purposely not chanting. He shook his head, first slowly, then quicker as the chant grew louder.
“They don’t know what they’re doing,” the frail old man cried, “they don’t understand they’re feeding the monster. They’re feeding his soul. They’re bringing Hyclid back to life!”
Looking over at each prisoner, Röark somewhat understood their grievance. They came from nothing, and now they were being led to certain doom. Their choice in faith in a bid for retribution was their only chance for saviour.
“Stop!” the old man cried, trying to drown out their chants, “Aevum will not save you, it will not!”
The train jerked suddenly, causing unsuspecting prisoners to slide sideways, their chains keeping them from tumbling over. Screams echoed from somewhere further down the open passageway once concealed by the destroyed wooden door.
Pushing his body across the floor, Röark peered down the darkened passage to which the cannibal had fled.
A long hallway of unimpressive wood, leading all the way to a second door, which also appeared battered in. A second scream resonated from the hallway, a terrified howl, following by smashing of glass.
Unable to see what was happening, Röark turned and holstered his leg against the wall, commencing a series of pulls to free himself of the shackles.
“Please,” he whimpered, hauling his body backwards with the assistance of his legs, “please, please.”
The train started to shake troublingly, jerking left to right, the gentle clackety-clack now a series of gut-wrenching cracks as the wheels seemed to lift from the rails. Listening intently, Röark turned to find the lamb rushing down the open passage, bleating in terror. The children began screaming, the women glancing around in fright.
They could all feel it.
The train was going too fast, dislodging from the railway lines.
“Aevum will not save us,” the old man beside Röark cried, still huddled in his corner pathetically, “for it is a ruse. A fake. A monster buried in the depths of the forest just like before.”
The screeching of failing gears filled the cabin, and the whole train shook violently. A ferocious crack offered indication the train had derailed, and the earth-shattering crunch of the front carriage tumbling sideways meant there was only seconds before their carriage would follow. Gazing dow
n the open passage, Röark watched as the front carriage disappeared, flying sideways, with a grinding crunch signalled the third was imminently to follow. Shards of glass and wood flew chaotically, screams of terrified prisoners ringing through the air.
Turning to grab hold of the steel rings attaching his chains to the wall, Röark braced himself. Within seconds, it felt as though the floor lifted below him, with two sickening thuds elevating the front of their carriage, causing the prisoners at the front to fall. With gut-wrenching blows, their chains prevented their descent, cracking their shoulder bones as the chains hyper-extended. As the carriage erected almost vertically, they hung like skinned rabbits, crying out in terror. Röark offered one glance up, watching as they hung, kicking their legs and swinging about. The two calves dropped downwards, one of them landing inches from Röark. Rolling sideways petrified, Röark’s movements were halted by the crumbling train carriage wall.
Pausing for a moment, the upright carriage precariously wobbled, before toppling sideways, dislodging from the cabin attached behind it. It then started rolling down the side of the mountain, the contents of the cabin now airborne. Bodies flew upwards, sideways and downwards, smashing against walls and floors. Pieces of coal flew arbitrarily, the carcass of the now dead calf smashed brutally across the tumbling train carriage.
Holding on gallantly, Röark did the best he could to prevent himself from falling. He didn’t know how high up the mountain they were. It all seemed to go in slow motion. Three or four of the chains had broken from the wall, and previously incarcerated prisoners were now flailing around like dolls, limp bodies thudding against the decrepit wooden walls. Bundles of hay rained across the crumbling cabin, its crippling timber fortifications crumbling under the pressure from the constant thuds of the side of the mountain.
Finally it stopped, a jarring whoosh and a loud splash signifying the end of the fall. Bobbing up and down, slimy green water oozed in from the damaged gashes in the walls. It swept across the floor quickly, rising with force. As the loose carriage sunk into the swamp waters at the foot of the mountain, the few survivors resumed their screams.
---
Desperately dehydrated, Cervis tried his best to avert his thoughts from the past day’s events. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mihaela, and Röark. About how senseless he was being tricked into breaking into the church in his very own village.
The villagers were all so angry – was Mihaela one of them?
He grasped his backpack, and licked his lips. His dirty, blackened hand wiped what little sweat his body exuded from his face, and he cuddled the backpack like a child with a doll. He longed for Collarbone.
He searched his surrounds for water. Most taverns would stock a keg of water in their storage tunnels below yet he was met with cloudy cobwebs and dust ridden old steel utensils scattered across the floor.
Bathed in the small glow from Rian’s distant match, Cervis made his way west of the hole in the ceiling from whence they came. Old silver goblets and impressive metal steins lay to his side, carpeted in grey, silky webs. The light towards the northern end of the room fell dim, and Rian’s voice cooed his name. Glancing over, Cervis realised the three of them, over in the very far corner, were looking towards him.
“Cervis, are you okay?” Rian’s voice came.
Cervis nodded in response, flashing them an assuring grin.
“There’s haybeds here,” Phillipe’s voice called, “we can let the sick man rest. Cervis, can you bring him over?”
Grasping his own chest, Cervis could feel his lungs filling with dust. Scratching his throat as he inhaled, the stale granules tickled his stomach. He coughed in disgust, squeezing his eyes shut. Swaying his hand in a bid to clear the air, he knocked a goblet across the floor, its elongated steel frame bouncing chaotically. Reaching out to stop its trajectory and cull the noise, he noticed Sully standing nearby, staring at him.
Something about her expression made Cervis tense.
“This town is full of secrets,” Sully chirped softly, a wry grin still perched across her face, “this one might make us rich. Looks like there used to be a tavern where this clock tower is.”
“Impossible,” Cervis replied, retreating to his knees, abandoned his crawl, “this clock tower was the first building in town. Mihaela’s father told me so.”
Sully’s curly red hair fell across her face as she turned her head, usual scowl embedded in her pale face.
“What would you know anyway,” she hissed, quietly. She turned her back to him, and continued scouring the room, making her way towards the back wall where Phillipe and Rian searched.
“What are you searching for?” Cervis asked.
“Gold. Treasures,” she shrugged, “anything I can sell.”
Retreating against the nearby wall, he pressed his sweat-soaked back against the stone and directed his attention to the tiny entrance in the ceiling. He gave thought to going back up – to see if the bedlam had died down. Closing his eyes, he ran over the events in his head, formulating how he would explain it to everyone. He would tell the truth. He would explain how he was passing the cattle fields when he had discovered Phillipe, Rian and Sully hiding in horse carts. He would explain how they insisted that he enter the town’s church, convincing him to enter the purported chambers hidden within the church hall and search for the pendant that once belonged to Dr Hyclid Van Wëegan, the founder of the governing faith Aevum. He would then explain to everyone that Rian had assured him the pendant was buried deep in the bowels of the church, beneath the limestone floors, inside the catacombs. The pendant was key to proving the ancient legend of Asag Ovrai, along with the participants of the cercle de lumière, and the recent attempts to reawaken the demon.
And it turned out, they had been correct about the pendant.
He had found it, locked away deep in the bowels of the eastern wing, inside a hidden chamber, nestled beneath the dirt at the foot of an old angel effigy.
“You can’t go back up,” Sully chirped, cutting into Cervis’ thoughts, her voice insistent and firm.
“What?” Cervis said, surprised.
“I can see it in your eyes,” the flame-haired girl insisted, her scowl deepening, “I know what you want.”
Cervis clutched his backpack, squeezing it tight. Sully looked him up and down, then gracefully dropped to her knees and swooped up the old goblet Cervis had knocked before.
“That sick old man is dying,” she said, glancing over the goblet, gently rubbing dust from its cold, metallic body, “he will die down here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I have been surrounded by death my whole life, I know what it looks like” she said, directing her gaze towards him, “don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not,” Cervis replied, correcting his posture, keeping eye contact with her, “I’m not afraid.”
“Why not?” she queried, turning her head slightly, “the folk in town have turned on you. Shouldn’t you be afraid?”
“You’re trying to frighten me. Why? It was you three made me do it,” Cervis whimpered, “you forced me. I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she hissed, wrapping the goblet into a small pocket on her animal-skin waist belt and turned her back, “the weak always die.”
She stormed away, towards the eastern section of the old underground hideaway.
Shaking, Cervis kept his eyes on her, before detecting Rian and Phillipe had made their way back from the other end of the old underground tavern, and were now kneeling beside the sick, dying man. They had found an old urn of water, and were attempting to boil it with the flame from Rian’s fire. Turning and leaning over to Cervis, Phillipe held out his hand, offering the pendant back.
“Leave it in your backpack, please don’t throw it again.”
The cold metal pendant dropped into Cervis’ open hand, and he pondered for a moment. Its translucent swirls spun furiously, the colours inside it hypnotic. As instructed, Cervis slipped the pendant back in
to his little grass-knit backpack.
Phillipe turned to Sully, urging her to assist, “Sully, help us carry this man over to one of the haybeds. If we don’t give him some water, he will die.”
CHAPTER 11.
Within minutes, the entire carriage was practically underwater. Green ooze engulfed the rear of the cabin first. The tail-end of the carriage then sunk, harbouring extra weight from prisoners, dead and alive. As it sunk, gargled screams from the remaining living prisoners cut short, disappearing beneath the rising swamp water. Escape was impossible. Their chains remained firmly attached to the back walls. The others who weren’t so lucky had become dislodged in the fall down the mountainside, their floating carcases drifting lonely aloft the rising water, hauntingly lifeless.
The front side of the carriage rose to a forty-five degree angle, with Röark clutching his chains resisting a fall into the murky green water. Pockets of bubbles popped on the surface, the slimy swamp water swallowing the rear of the cabin. Two prisoners, both male, had somehow managed to climb on top of a floating corpse, wrapping their chains around each other using joint force to break them from the wall. Now free, they paddled desperately, trying to escape through a hole in the side of the wall.
The only other survivor was the tiny old man, similarly bunched against a wall, holding tightly to his chains. His little feet slid precariously, his face frozen in panic.
The water continued to rise. Inundating the sinking cabin from each crack in the wall, the noxious sludge eventually reached the tip of Röark’s feet. If he did nothing, the entire cabin would be submerged, and he would most certainly drown.
Flinging his body backwards, his weight initiated the chains to finally break loose, the foundation in the wall weakened by the tumble down the mountainside. He fell backwards into the pool of mushy water, spluttering.
“Help me! Help me!” squealed the tiny man, jerking at his chains to no avail.