Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1)

by Tetreault-Blay, Chris

  Edward leapt from behind Ewan and grabbed the pack, eyes wide with horror staring at it.

  ‘What animals live in these woods that could have done this?’ Edward asked. He had betrayed his friend again by not staying by his side when he was in a vulnerable state. They should never have come out here. He would blame himself forever if he could not find Franklin alive. Both men looked around to try and guess which direction Franklin had gone but they may as well have been looking at the night sky in hope of seeing the sun.

  The crushed leaves on the ground provided no footprints either until Ewan spotted a patch of the track, cleared of leaves that lay pushed into a small mound at the base of a tree as if someone or something had travelled at speed, their feet sliding on the wet pile beneath them. It was not much of a sign but it something. They both crept forward and Ewan could see a similar marking in the leaves ten yards ahead, this time on the opposite side of the track suggesting a change of direction.

  They followed the cryptic mounds through the thick woodland, eventually being led towards the end of the track as it met a hedge made of thorns. Edward carefully stepped forward to look past the hedge and into the void. The trees ahead swayed lazily in the faint breeze and a glimmer of moonlight seeped through.

  ‘It’s here,’ Edward said looking down finally able to see the floor some fifty feet down.

  Edward signalled to Ewan, who peered in the same direction, seeing the familiar void that met the forest floor covered in earth so damp the smell reached his nostrils. They had made it to the Pit but there was no sign of Franklin. They had to descend into its mouth. All they had to do was find a route.

  As he turned back around to survey a possible pathway Ewan was met with a blinding flash of light and a moment of searing pain in his temple as the darkness collapsed in around him. His limp body crumpled onto the floor without a sound, as a hooded figure raised his iron club and brought it down onto the back of Edward’s head, not giving him time to turn around and notice his fallen son. The blow cracked his skull and penetrated the delicate tissue of his brain with ease, killing him instantly. His dead body turned slightly to the right with the impact, falling onto his back so he looked up at his attackers.

  The man-mountain grabbed hold of Edward’s coat by the lapels and tossed him back towards the entrance to the thick growth behind them. Immediately a flash of green emerged behind the trees as two Faerie dogs took hold of the corpse by the neck, each pulling in different directions tearing the flesh away, spilling his blood onto the dried carpet of leaves.

  Stamwell scooped up Ewan’s body and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry descending the path to their left down to the bottom of the pit as the hooded figures followed. They watch Stamwell’s massive frame disappear into the cavern entrance and into the shadows once more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Archibald had risen from his slumber less than an hour earlier. It had been the most complete night’s sleep he’d had in weeks and immediately felt better for it. He swung up to sit on the side of his cot then strained to his feet. Last night he had witnessed their Saviour and a weight was lifted from his shoulders and chest; he felt like he could breathe again.

  The years since the local heathens had forced him from his calling as pastor of Wildermoor, he had lived in exile in Harper Falls. He was no longer the man he used to be. In stature he had wasted away, now existing as skin stretched over worn bones. His hair had greyed and thinned within weeks of him being cut off from his people. If he had gone back to the villages he used to serve, he would not be recognised. He had also lost his name and needed to conceal himself from any who may pass through Harper Falls for fear that he would be the Hanging Tree’s next ornament. As Joseph Yeo, he had held a community in his hands. As William Archibald he lorded over a few faceless figures that had followed him to the solace of Harper Falls, exiled for their belief in the old religion. But now they too were showing signs that they no longer believed in him. He needed to deliver their Saviour to them to restore their faith and finally he had Him, locked in the darkness of a cell deep in the Pit walls. At last they would all be able to rise and take Wildermoor back for themselves.

  Still he lacked one piece of the puzzle. The prophecy told of a final sacrifice; an impure life to balance the pure one he had already offered; Evelyn. The Fielders had been dispatched in the early hours to the neighbouring villages back towards Tewke’s Range to bring him such a soul. He stood shaking with excitement and anticipation and waited for news.

  Archibald had no sooner wrapped himself in the skin tunic, suppressing the little warmth his body retained, when he heard the familiar heavy knock on his chamber door. He held his breath momentarily then summoned the caller.

  ‘Enter,’ he commanded.

  The hulking frame of Stamwell appeared holding his head heavy. Archibald hoped that this was due to fatigue and not the forbearance of dismal news. He stood silent for a few more seconds.

  ‘And?’ Archibald snapped irritably.

  ‘Father, we have found them,’ Stamwell drew out the words as if each one brought him more fear.

  ‘Where?’ The Father replied.

  ‘No further than outside our very own walls, Father. Two trespassers were found in the yard,’ Stamwell referred to the clearing outside the cave entrances. ‘An old man who looks to have been travelling in this direction, was attacked and fell, followed by a young man who seems to have been travelling a few hours behind him. The old man is barely alive. He must have been unconscious for a matter of hours. He has suffered severe broken bones by the looks of him and the sounds he made when he was dragged down the halls. The young man was apprehended conscious and alive at the time. The old man has been muttering a name – Christina, I believe.’

  Archibald’s eyes widened and his mouth parted at the mention of that name. His breathing grew heavier, his lungs failing to comply.

  ‘Gather the Council at once,’ the words tumbled from Archibald’s mouth before giving way to a brief flash of a smile. Then fear masked his face as it began to turn ashen. ‘The most impure of souls is amongst us. It is time.’

  Stamwell looked at the old man with growing concern, not knowing whether or not to follow his orders. His master did not look well. He knew the wrath of the Father was comparable to that of any demon so he immediately took his leave to gather the rest of the hooded figures scattered around the cavern dwelling.

  Archibald collapsed back on the bed. His chest tightened. He would rest a while. He needed his strength now more than ever.

  They all did.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ewan could not decide whether he had opened his eyes or not. The darkness surrounded him and he felt as if he was breathing it in. He could move his arms, and felt his way up his to his face. His fingers recoiled at the feel of the rough, torn skin covering his cheek, covered in dried blood. His head felt like it was going to implode with a pain that swirled around like a cognitive tornado inside his skull.

  The effort exhausted him but he tried again to make sense of whether or not he could see. He swore he could hear a rustling in the dark now. He was sitting, he knew that much. He was propped against a wall so damp it felt as if the moisture was eating through his shirt.

  He heard the sounds again, only this time heavier, drawing closer but still distant. It drew near until Ewan was sure he could make out the faint rasps of breathing, laboured and ailing. It was slow, each breath drawn in and held for long seconds before a hoarse exhale. The footsteps ceased briefly as Ewan fruitlessly tried to get his bearings. Then a door opened with a creak that startled him. With the creaking of the door came a suggestion of light, which grew stronger until Ewan could make out the rough contours of the inner walls of this place; his cell. The pain in his head lit up again. He closed his eyes until it ceased. When he opened them again he could see shadows dancing on the walls, brought to life by the torch that was carried by a man who led the others, larger than any he had seen before. Even at a di
stance across the room Ewan could feel his body tense in fear of the figure.

  Behind the man-mountain followed six more figures, shadows draped in black hooded gowns. Last to enter the chamber was a man who looked the polar opposite of the group of dark souls; an old man dressed in a robe of shocking white emblazoned with black crosses. Archibald walked up onto a small wooden platform facing the Faceless figures and the man-mountain, and waved towards the giant to close the door. The room was now lit with four other torches around the walls, allowing Ewan’s eyes the chance to adjust to the light.

  Archibald stood proud at his altar like a king addressing the masses. He carried an air of power and arrogance, holding his head high and soaking in the dank atmosphere around him. As Ewan’s eyes scanned the room he saw a wooden table strapped to the earth floor in the centre of the chamber, held by four heavy metal clamps, each roped to the outer chamber walls. Ewan’s heart dropped to his knees when he saw the sorry figure that lay atop the table, bound to it by crude leather straps. Lying broken, bleeding and barely breathing, was the body of Franklin James.

  *****

  ‘Brothers! Hear me now!’ Archibald’s voice violently shattered the silence hanging in the air. ‘The day is finally upon us and we will all be saved!’ Archibald stood upon his pulpit, his arms spread wide, addressing his congregation as if he himself were a god. The hooded figures began to show signs of life and Ewan’s feeling of terror grew. He was desperately searching the walls around him. He needed to find an escape route. While the figures were distracted, he might be able to slip away unnoticed.

  But what about Franklin?

  He could not leave him behind to suffer the horrors the demented priest had in store for him. As Ewan glanced down he realised that he could not see his own legs past the knees but there was no sign of blood and he was far from being in pain. He concluded that his legs must have been folded beneath him so that he was kneeling, slumped against the damp wall. He had been locked in this position for so long that his legs had gone numb. He willed his heart to pump the blood harder to his limbs.

  Franklin did not move. The only sign that he was alive; his strained breathing. His throat must be injured, thought Ewan. No man could make such strangled sounds without having suffered a trauma.

  ‘I promised you that I would find the Pure One; the one whose innocence would be devoured and brought to life again in each of us,’ Archibald continued, ‘and I did. For that subject has now served its purpose and its grace and goodness is now within the body of our saviour.’

  Ewan became transfixed on Archibald as he spoke. Was he referring to his beloved Evelyn? She was the fairest and purest of creatures Ewan had ever known. The facts were now battling with his hope that she was still alive. But his hope was waning fast. As he pictured her face, his heart could not take the pain of knowing that he had failed her. He had lost her and worst of all he had never told her how he felt.

  ‘And I told you that I would find the Impure One as the prophecy foretold; the one whose soul is black with the tar of sin; the one whose faithless life has been lived only with the intention of bringing down the kingdom of our Lord. Friends, I tell you once more that I have succeeded,’ Archibald declared triumphantly signalling with his outstretched hand towards the body of Franklin James.

  ‘The people of Wildermoor can keep the Lord they pray to – the very one that we used to turn to ourselves for salvation,’ he referred to his hooded followers. ‘We now have our own. And we will sit by his side, for we are the Chosen.’

  Archibald’s gaze did not leave Franklin’s body as he spoke. He glided down from his pulpit through the six hooded figures waiting, hanging on his every word, and into the centre of the room to where Franklin’s crumpled body lay.

  Then almost inaudibly, as if he were talking to himself, Archibald muttered,

  ‘The one who thought he could bring me down, taking away my very essence of being.’ The priest bent down beside Franklin so his mouth was close to the old man’s ear. ‘I told you I would be back, James. I warned you that I would take everything.’ Standing back up and addressing his congregation once more, he roared ‘And now I offer that to our saviour, for my work here is done!’ Archibald turned quickly to meet Stamwell and barked another order at his giant henchman. ‘Summon the dungeon guards! It’s His time now.’

  Stamwell left the chamber, his torch lighting the hallway dimly as he made his way deeper into the cavern. He could just about live with removing the dead bodies of young women whose capture he had overseen, and convinced himself that it was all for the Father’s own sexual gratification. But he had seen a change in him. The warm arm that had taken Stamwell in all those years ago had turned to a cold embrace that was threatening to take Stamwell to the same depths of insanity as Archibald.

  He had watched Archibald become obsessed with redemption, finding their true saviour and raising him to restore order. For years he had raved about finding this figure and he now believed he had.

  Stamwell had only seen the creature once. Archibald had spent a week locked away in the confines of the cavern Stamwell now found himself walking towards. When he had returned to his living quarters, Archibald had not spoken for another week. His fixed stare and pale skin scared Stamwell, for only the second time in his life.

  Archibald had then started sending Stamwell and the Fielders out at least once a week to scour the nearby villages, to find more subjects. He had resembled a man who had worked out the equation to the meaning of life but who still had to rely on trial and error to obtain the final figure, a man trying to find something but would never say what.

  Then one night he had finally broken down in his quarters in front of Stamwell who had been shocked to see Archibald in such a state. The priest had been inconsolable as he raved about damnation and demons coming to claim his soul. For a man of faith, it had been disturbing to hear him talk of such things.

  ‘Do you fear anything at all?’ Archibald had asked Stamwell, catching him off-guard. Stamwell had not known whether Archibald was genuinely interested in his answer or accusing him of being void of fear.

  ‘I fear for you now, Father,’ he had responded, ‘I have never seen you like this.’

  Appreciating the concern, Archibald had raised a wry smile.

  ‘I am doomed,’ he had said. ‘My soul is not long of this world.’

  Stamwell had refused to let Archibald condemn himself and kept trying to reason that he was sick, perhaps delirious or delusional. Archibald’s façade had hardened once more with Stamwell’s insistence as he tried to convince him that his sanity was still intact.

  ‘I will show you if I must.’

  ‘You do not have to show me anything to prove yourself to me, Father. I owe you my life and if you say you are okay then I shall lend my peace to this matter and it will be forgotten.’

  Archibald had been on the brink of agreeing and brushing everything under the sheepskin rug that lay on the cold stone floor in his chambers. But he had known he could not. The little humanity he still possessed would not allow him to do this to Stamwell. He insisted once more he show him the truth.

  With that, Stamwell had followed Archibald through the dark, dank corridors deeper into the caves. At the end of the final long passageway there had been a large oak door with a heavy knocker and a sliding viewing panel from the inside. It was the door Stamwell now stood at, once again.

  With the same trepidation that he felt on his first visit, he pulled the heavy steel knocker back and let it bang against the door twice, echoing up the corridors and out into the night air. Stamwell waited until the viewing panel was noisily pulled back and revealed a pair of narrow, suspicious eyes. The eyes said nothing but acknowledged Stamwell’s presence with a widening stare.

  ‘Is he ready?’ Stamwell asked.

  The eyes grunted in response and then disappeared behind the viewing panel once more. Stamwell heard the heavy bolt and within seconds the door was opened to reveal another dimly lit cell, the lar
gest within the network of tunnels, and Stamwell slowly entered.

  As Stamwell stood and searched the darkness, his eyes slowly adjusted to make out a glint of light running some ten feet down the wall. The flicker of the lit torches illuminated two chains that ran parallel, ten feet apart. Both were met at the top by a shelf of glistening skin. The chains shook violently every few seconds, met with a menacing and chilling growl, almost resembling breathing. Stamwell’s gaze continued up until he met the two red orbs hovering in the darkness.

  The eyes were set deep inside a massive head covered in wet, scaly skin.

  ‘I pray thee won’t judge me. One day I hope to explain to you the reasons why I have done this.’ The words replayed in Stamwell’s mind from that first night he had been allowed into this chamber. Archibald had behaved like a shamed father desperately trying not to lose the loyalty of a son.

  Before him stood a creature twenty foot tall. At first it resembled a man until Stamwell registered it was supported by legs of a goat, the size of oak tree trunks. Its hooves sunk into the damp earth under the weight of its massive frame. Hanging down behind it was a tail; Stamwell could not tell its full size but could hear it scrape against the wall behind. Its face was fierce, it’s skin pulled tight over a massive skull, and two horns grew out of the forehead, as big as those of a mountain bull, tapered to tips sharpened to provide a fatal blow. He had never felt his body numb like this before. He had the urge to vomit but each of his vital organs had seized up in the creature’s presence.