Its mouth opened, as if surveying Stamwell’s frame for size, and he saw the teeth. His mouth was filled with hundreds, thousands, of razors that would break through bone as if it were sand.
Stamwell heard the shadows of Archibald’s voice once again. ‘I have been chosen. We have been chosen to receive our saviour at last.’ The Reverend drew in his breath through his teeth as he prepared to name his creation.
‘Apollyon. The angel of the bottomless pit. The Lord’s destroyer.’
*****
Apollyon stared down at Stamwell again; the movement of the monster’s mouth made him feel like he was being measured up as its next meal. But Stamwell felt stronger this time, more in control of his fear of the creature.
‘What does he want us to do with him, then?’ One of the dungeon guards slurred.
Stamwell felt like he was awoken from a state of trance himself. Those eyes had a way of getting hold of you but Stamwell did not feel overcome by the beast, unlike Archibald.
‘He has summoned him,’ replied Stamwell managing to draw his eyes away from the creature. ‘He is ready to conduct the Ascension Rite,’ he referred to the ritual of redemption and salvation that Archibald had told him about that first night here.
‘Where?’ the guard asked dumbly with a gratuitous grunt.
‘Where do you think? He has convened the Council in the Arterial Chamber. He is to be taken there at once,’ he spat the last word and headed towards the door.
‘You’re not going to help us then, cocker? Expect us to manhandle this thing all on our own?’ exclaimed another guard.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he lied.
Stamwell opened the door and quickly made his escape, letting it slam shut again behind him. He rushed back towards the Arterial Chamber, pausing once or twice to catch his breath. His heart was pounding too fast now for him to keep up the pace.
He couldn’t watch this man fall deeper into insanity or whatever he had created. He decided to follow orders no more, for his heart could no longer bear the pain of losing another father. His shoulders were not broad enough to carry any more guilt and for the first time in his life he knew that there was nothing he could do.
Stamwell stared at the doors in the hope that divine voice would instruct him. But he knew he had to act on his own. Stamwell walked past the door to the chamber, his guilt mounting and heart breaking with each step. He kept ascending the corridors of the caverns, further into the darkness, searching for the light of the moon and did not look back.
*****
Archibald waited nervously within his congregation, the set of black-hooded faces staring back at him expectantly. He was beyond nervous. He feared once more for his life, for he had made too many promises to the Council to try and convince them of his worth and legitimacy. Too often he had failed them.
Ewan had given up struggling in his shackles. As he moved, more blood flowed back into his legs and as the feeling came back so did the pain. His eyes rarely left Franklin, whose minimal movements were starting to wane. He was watching a man he considered his second father slowly pass away and was powerless to stop it.
His thoughts were disturbed when he heard a faint rumbling, muffled through the thick dirt walls. It was intermittent to start with but grew louder and more persistent. His breath stopped in his throat when he heard the first roar bellow along the corridor outside. Whatever it was, it was drawing closer. He felt his body grow cold. That roar was inhuman. The echo resonated through the walls and he could feel short, sharp tremors in the ground beneath him. Accompanying the cry was a faint jingle, which created a harmless symphony.
Ewan felt his legs start to wake up underneath him, causing more discomfort. It was as though they were trying to carry him out of this place on their own accord. His flight response was kicking in. Once again he knew he and Franklin were in danger and these figures in the room meant them mortal harm.
Ewan was startled by three slow, deliberate thuds on the door. Archibald also appeared surprised at the sound. Archibald composed himself quickly and bellowed his customary command to the caller,
‘Enter.’
The door slowly opened and the two dungeon guards entered, each trailing ten-foot of heavy wrought iron chains, the links of which were an inch thick and five inches in diameter. As the chains followed behind them, the massive, hulking frame of Apollyon was led, doubled over in order to fit through the door.
Some of the Council staggered back a few paces, hands on their chest in exclamation but the hoods disguised if it was surprise, joy or horror. As Apollyon cleared the doorway, he raised himself to full height. The ceiling in the chamber was almost as high as ground level. All the members of the Council were now huddled against the far wall opposite to where Apollyon stood.
Twenty-feet tall, his tree-trunk legs pushing his gargantuan torso higher, his massive head now surveyed the ceiling above him. He opened his mouth and bared his teeth, running his tongue across them in an almost-human but sadistic grin.
As the Council watched in bewilderment, Apollyon took two huge steps towards them. They huddled closer and scrambled further down the rear wall of the chamber, reaching out to grab each other for security. Their faceless, menacing stares crumbled within seconds.
‘Behold….Apollyon. The Angel of the bottomless pit, the saviour of the faithful and the Reaper of The Damned!’ Archibald said with gusto, standing in front of Apollyon as the monster’s gaze fixed on him. ‘Release the chains,’ he commanded the dungeon guards, ‘and leave us.’ They hastily wrestled with the locks on the chains at Apollyon’s wrists. As soon as the locks freed and the chains dropped to the ground they turned and disappeared from sight.
‘My Lord,’ Archibald addressed the beast, ‘Our gift to you.’ He spoke softly to Apollyon, and led him with an outstretched hand to the centre of the room, and the table on which Franklin lay.
Ewan couldn’t watch. As soon as he heard Archibald mutter those words he had to succumb to his own weaknesses; he was powerless to stop anything happening to the old man now.
Apollyon’s eyes widened as he looked down at Franklin, his head tracing the length of his body up and down. He looked from Archibald and back at the body several times, asking for permission and encouragement. Only when Apollyon’s stare was fixed onto Franklin once more - and Archibald’s presence no longer provided a distraction - did the priest take his leave from the circle. He backed slowly away from the beast, the one that he himself had raised, towards the remaining figures of the Council and stood triumphantly before them.
Ewan continued to look at the terror that was taking place before him, too entranced to turn away. He was pleading inside for Franklin to rise up from the table and run… and keep running until he was far away from the madness. But it was no use. Tears started to well and sting in Ewan’s eyes. He had failed them all; he had failed the three who he loved the most, and had even led two of them to death.
Apollyon’s mouth was parted in a permanent grin, sneering at the form before him. The chamber was filled with bated breath. Apollyon finally lowered his head towards Franklin, his eyes still investigating the length of his body. The beast’s head now rested inches from Franklin’s bruised and bloodied face. Its jaws widened even further causing the serpent-like tongue to fall free of its cage slapping Franklin’s face with a moist touch. He dragged the tongue over the surface of his face, covering it all in thick gluey saliva. Ewan watched in horror as the massive jaws came down and parted either side of Franklin’s head. Franklin’s body now appeared as one with the beast.
Ewan saw Apollyon’s jaw-bones tighten. He looked away in horror, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to wake up from the nightmare unfolding before him. But his ears did not fail him. He heard the crack and snap, joined by the muffled cries as the beast squeezed down and crushed Franklin’s head as easily as biting through a rotten apple.
Archibald clasped his hands together and rubbed them satisfactorily, marvelling at the beast’s display of hun
ger and power. Apollyon savoured the bite, sinking his teeth lower into Franklin’s flesh, slowly turning his bones to splinters. His head finally lifted, and with it Franklin’s face slid away from his skull. His blood now pumped freshly and freely into a pool, beneath what was left of his head, gently trickling onto the earthen floor. The flesh that had once made up his gentle mask now hung like a scrap of meat from Apollyon’s jaws.
Ewan’s hands briefly fell from his eyes and he froze when he beheld the ghastly sight. He felt a rising in his throat and turned his head to vomit. His head hurt as it tried to make sense of the chaos.
Apollyon looked down at the remains of his first meal, the head drenched in fresh blood. He bowed his head once more and lapped up as much as he could with his tongue before opening his jaws wide again and sinking his teeth into both sides of the torso, tightened his grip once more and violently shaking his head, tearing open Franklin’s chest. The skin and muscle tore away just as easily and the beast devoured it in one gluttonous mouthful.
Archibald stood in awe of the monster he had raised himself. He had finally acquired the power he needed to prove his worth to the Council and to save his eternal soul. He glanced back to the cowering hooded figures as one of them drew closer to him, entranced. Archibald tried to muster words of warning, but his breath stood still in his throat. The figure continued towards the beast. It stood no taller than Apollyon’s thigh and when it was within touching distance, it extended a hand towards his leg.
The Council member’s hand touched the hard, scaly flesh. The other hand reached up to the hood and slowly pulled it down. There stood a woman, pale-skinned, dark hair flowing down her neck and tucked into her hooded gown. Her head rose up towards Apollyon, her mouth parting into a smile before opening as if a laugh was about to escape. At the touch, Apollyon’s head snapped over his right shoulder and looked down at her. He scowled, his brow furrowed into an almost-human expression of anger. The woman’s hand shot back from his skin. Archibald could hear her struggle for breath as she looked up at the monster. For the first time, Archibald felt cold blood course through him. He had raised the beast but at once realised that he had no idea how to control it.
Archibald silently prayed. Not to the demon before him but to the God he had betrayed. In that moment he started to feel regret. He had not gained power but had instead unleashed it in its most destructive form.
Apollyon’s body turned fully to meet the woman’s fragile frame as she continued to back away. She had no time to run or turn from him as Apollyon’s right hand reached out and grabbed her, picking her off the ground like a feather and pulling her closer to him. Within seconds his jaws were wrapped around her neck and with a single gentle sweep of the head, her throat was torn open. Her body convulsed as her breath spluttered out through the wound.
‘No, no….no, NOOOOOO’ Archibald screamed clawing at his head.
Apollyon threw her body to the ground with a sickening crunch as her neck and back broke. Tears streamed down Archibald’s cheeks as her body lay in a crumpled, bloody heap before him. He looked up at Apollyon, weeping and praying for mercy from his own creation.
The beast continued forward towards Archibald, whose body was trembling uncontrollably. Another hooded member of the Council launched forward towards Apollyon. The figure got within arm’s reach of the creature, before Apollyon batted it away with his left arm. The body left the ground and clattered against one of the chamber walls with a soft thud; the sound of another cracking bone as the limp body crumpled onto the floor. This drew Apollyon’s gaze from Archibald for precious seconds, long enough for the priest to get message to his legs to leave.
As Archibald ran for the chamber door, he met the eye of a man across the sacrificial floor; the other prisoner who sat chained but struggling to make his own escape. Ewan wrestled with the shackles binding his legs to the wall and was frantically trying to dig away the dirt from around the base they were attached to. The dirt clung under his nails and softened his grip, making him work harder with each handful he managed to grab, until soon he started to feel weary again, fatigue returning to his arms and legs.
Archibald started to open the chamber door but a foreign feeling stopped him from going through. Guilt was holding him back; remorse was compelling him to help the young man who had borne witness to the horror he had directed. At his age he probably would not get very far alone anyway. A young, strong set of hands was what he needed.
For the first time since the beginning of the ritual, Archibald thought of Stamwell. He searched for the massive frame that had followed him for years and had served as his own shadow.
For the first time in all those years, he was not by his side. And for the first time since he could remember, Archibald felt alone. He needed the prisoner, whoever he was. He was his only hope. In order to leave his sins in the caves, he needed to seek redemption.
He saw Apollyon surveying the carnage at his feet and knew he did not have long before the beast focussed on him again. The beast knew not loyalty to he who created him, only pain and destruction. Archibald tried to run over to Ewan but his legs were made of rubber. Ewan struggled with his chains, his arms feeling like lead pipes before finally he conceded defeat and slumped back against the damp wall. He had given up hope of finding Evelyn the minute he awoke in that place and he had seen Franklin’s fate. Now he was giving up on himself. His only hope was that his father was safe, perhaps on his way back to Katrina at The Weary Traveller, already planning another rescue mission.
He was dumbfounded to see the demented priest hobbling towards him, with his hands outstretched. The old man looked pleadingly towards Ewan, spending his last breath to make it across the clearing to him.
‘I can help you,’ Archibald cried breathlessly, then edged closer, ‘but you have to help me too’.
Ewan looked at him blankly; the confusion and amazement left him speechless. Moments ago he had summoned the Antichrist and now he was trying to make a deal to save them both! Ewan’s head dropped in a vacant nod. Archibald stumbled over to where Ewan was slumped and fumbled in the pocket of his gown.
Despite their trembling, Archibald’s hands finally found the keys. He could hear Apollyon’s grunts behind him becoming angry and impatient.
Ewan’s own hands were struggling to keep still as he watched the old man wrestle with the key chain, and he breathed a brief sigh of relief when he saw the single silver key emerge from the priest’s garment. He waited for what felt like eternity with his hands out before him until the click as the key sank into the lock, followed by the drop of the shackles from his wrists. Ewan momentarily wept, but as quickly as the emotion had risen within him, it was sucked back deep inside as he witnessed a horror take place inches from his own eyes.
For a moment he thought he was blinded. The artery was sliced by the beast’s blade-like claws. Archibald’s face remained frozen against the torrent that spewed from the opening in his throat. The sounds he heard as he struggled to wipe the blood from his face told him there was nothing he could do for the old man. He was forced to listen to him die.
Ewan finally regained his sight, the chamber still nothing but a blur. He could just make out the hulking, grotesque shape of Apollyon ten feet in front of him hunched but still towering over the limp, shredded body of its creator. Apollyon’s body remained still, giving a sense of purpose to its thrashing arms as it cut away Archibald’s flesh. Whimpers were heard amongst the ungodly growls and grunts, weakening after each strike until the body eventually gave up the fight. Ribbons of flesh hung down from Apollyon’s claws like trophies from each kill.
His limbs slowly began to jerk back to life, as his brain urged every inch of his terrified frame to move. As his senses started to return, he retched when he finally breathed, smelling and tasting the foul air that started to fill the chamber. The odour, the sounds and the images of this hell started to overcome him once more. The air was tainted with the copper-essence of spilled blood, and the visceral remains of the
Council met each glance as he turned his head.
He spied the way out - the only way out – an impossible hundred yards ahead; the door the guards had clambered through, when they had made their swift exit, remained open. More fortunate members of the Council must have been able to take their leave whilst the beast and Archibald had been otherwise engaged.
He turned once more towards Apollyon, who still busied himself picking the remains of the scattered bodies beneath him. He estimated that he could make it if his legs still possessed the speed and strength they once had which seemed unlikely. Still he hoped.
Ewan’s body was acting on instinct and made the decision for him. He scrambled to his feet and briskly took two paces. Apollyon remained undeterred so Ewan tried a run. The pain shot up through his feet, his knees and up the centre of his back stopping him momentarily, as his body fought to keep itself moving.
That moment cost him dearly. The soft crunch of hardened dirt beneath his feet as his body stopped dead instantly alerted the beast. The massive head shot around as if released by a catapult, its red eyes fixed on Ewan as a mixture of blood, drool and grey matter oozed from the corner of his mouth. The snarl that followed emanated from somewhere so deep within its stomach, that Ewan wondered if it were from the ground itself.
Ewan took two more steps.
He heard and felt the mammoth frame shift and lurch towards him.
He managed three more steps before the ground was taken from under him, and then returned to him with a force that brought the darkness back to envelope him. But this time it was not warm and comforting.
All light faded as consciousness left him.
The ringing inside his head brought Ewan back to consciousness, but only briefly. His eyes were still blurred; the pain in his head quickly spread through his entire body. His eyes managed to focus long enough to make out the massive bulk of Apollyon, above him. As his eyes became heavier he thought he saw not one but two shapes above him, the second appearing just as large as the beast, shrouded in black. The end was near and now all he could do was pray it would come swiftly.
Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) Page 10