Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1)

by Tetreault-Blay, Chris

  After leading the beast to the sacrificial chamber, the massive, snarling, hungry stare and growl of Apollyon bearing down on him, making his bones feel as if they were shrinking. Upon his initial escape, Stamwell had reached the mouth of the cave before an invisible force had stopped him and forced him to go back down into the depths, where the horrific unveiling was still taking place. He could not abandon Father Archibald, the man who had saved him from abandonment and rejection all those years ago. Despite all of his wrongdoings, that man had never betrayed him. He may have been too late but he could not bring himself to leave the cave without trying.

  On his route to the sacrificial chamber, Stamwell had detoured to Archibald’s private quarters, where he knew a concealed weapon had been hidden in the back of his wardrobe since the day they had all moved underground, away from the prying villagers of Harper Falls.

  He found it shining in the darkness. A two-foot blade on a gold shaft, the sword was heavy. Stamwell had been the only one down there who had demonstrated that he could handle such a weapon, and Archibald had said he would bestow the sword on him when he was in a position to assume power. Stamwell decided for himself, and on Archibald’s behalf, that now was that time. He had to find the power to stop the abomination that had been created.

  Upon returning to the chamber, Stamwell could not have prepared for the scene that lay before him. Battered, broken and shredded bodies strewn across the floor, all members of the Council. He could tell that there were fewer bodies than had descended the caverns earlier that night. Some of them must have been fortunate enough to get away. The beast was twenty feet away, distracted by a fleeing prisoner – one of the men that Stamwell had brought down there himself – when Stamwell noticed the motionless body that lay close to his right. The garment, previously a brilliant white surrounded with exquisite red stitching, now lay on the ground, covered in sprays of thick, dark blood. He could also see a shock of white hair protruding from beneath the remains of the cassock’s hood.

  Stamwell knew who the body belonged to but he had to see it for himself. With one hand he managed to turn the lifeless body over onto his back.

  The white hair and chosen garment, or remains of it, were enough to convince him that this was William Archibald. The flesh from his face was hanging loose and the muscles beneath were torn beyond recognition.

  The rage that he had been trained to subdue for so long, the very same short fuse of emotions that Archibald had wanted to harbour in order to assist with his future domination, had rushed to the fore. Stamwell gave a wounded cry just as Apollyon slammed down the body of the prisoner effortlessly to the ground.

  Both creatures – the human and the demon – turned to face each other. The beast advanced at once, the ground shaking as he launched forward with each step on his trunk-like legs. The beast’s eyes never left Stamwell and he did not see the blade held proud before him until his body impaled itself onto it.

  *****

  There was a moment of silence between them as the beast tried to understand what had happened. Stamwell had no idea if this creature had any perception of the world around him, any form of consciousness, but after what happened next, there would be no question that it knew what pain was.

  Its eyes turned a paler shade of red as the blood drained from them and around its grotesque body. The ear-piercing shriek that followed deafened Stamwell, causing him to double up to protect the rest of his body from the vibrations that shattered his ear drums.

  Stamwell, distracted by the ringing - and then bleeding – in his ears, did not see the arm swing towards him brandishing a fist full of black claws, tapered to a point as sharp and deadly as the head of a poisoned arrow. They sliced easily at Stamwell’s flesh and opened his shoulder up as easily as a knife through warm butter. It happened so suddenly that there was no rush of blood immediately, for his heart had stopped for a second or two, draining his life supply back into itself, before spewing it back out around his body, easily finding the opening of the wound.

  Stamwell staggered back a couple of paces, the heat from the strike coursing through his body, his entire right arm turning to pins and needles, going numb. His arm hung there, useless, as Stamwell found himself bowing before the beast unwittingly on a bended knee.

  Apollyon pulled away, still shrieking but the sound now muffled to Stamwell due to the injury to his ears, as he struggled to control his breathing as well as slow the bleeding. His head was becoming weightless, his vision starting to blur, and he could see the looming figure of the beast returning to advance upon him. Its movements were shakier now and with every step taken, it squealed as it too was losing blood from the open wound in its stomach. As the beast had thrashed and sliced away at Stamwell, it had worked itself loose from the blade, but not before inadvertently twisting it several times to tear away at its own inners.

  It may not have shared the human thought, but it was clear the beast knew pain, and even feared death itself. Stamwell, in his own stupor, briefly wondered whether the beast could die. Would that not have been the reason why the Council wanted to raise such abomination – to be able to provide, at last, an indestructible leader?

  No.

  Stamwell knew that one strike from a simple – but heavy – blade was not enough to render the beast at the mercy of its own god. Shadows loomed around Stamwell as it moved closer. It did not seem to take another step this time, but instead leapt towards where Stamwell crouched, where he was finally able to acquire enough oxygen to pull strength back into his limbs. His right arm now useless, Stamwell’s left grabbed the sword from the floor and raised it as high as he could, his strength now sapping from the rest of his body as quickly as he was losing blood on his right.

  His left arm jerked with the impact but remained rigid and taut for a moment more, as the weight of Apollyon bore down on him. The blade ran deep within its flesh once again, a slight crunch as it penetrated the armour-like exterior and then a squelch as it met the spongy flesh and muscle beneath.

  The sound of crunching bone joined the cocophony, but Stamwell thought the weight was slowly crushing the bones in his own arm. He used the rest of his remaining strength to let go of the blade and drag his body quickly to the right, performing a clumsy commando roll. He heard the soft thud and clink as the metal of the blade finally hit the ground, pressed down by the unbearable weight of Apollyon’s limp frame.

  The beast had once again forced its own body on the blade, which had entered through the thinner flesh on the underside of its chin, riding through piercing its jaw, then the tongue and finally the roof of its mouth, meeting the nasal capacity before appearing again through the small area between its ghastly eyes.

  It lay there limp but still snorting as it drew its final breaths. It did not appear to die, but Stamwell decided not to wait around to witness the finale. Both arms now felt useless to him, and betrayed his every move, but his legs were still his friends. They helped push his own massive frame from the floor and his heart was able to once again force blood to his injured limbs.

  Stamwell could see the prisoner – now just another limp body amongst the debris that scattered the chamber floor – but he could hear the faint exhalations brush the dirt under where he lay, as the breath still struggled in and out. Stamwell staggered over to one of the mangled bodies of the Council members - not sparing a thought for the lost lives as they had all had it coming, he grabbed one of the thick, black hooded robes from beneath the corpse. Stamwell’s near-superhuman strength returning to him, he wrapped the robe around his shoulders, hoisted Ewan’s body, over his left shoulder and quickly headed for the exit.

  He looked around the room once more, sparing a thought for the evil that the Council had raised – the still-snorting body of Apollyon laying on its front, its royal sceptre rising from the top of its head, covered in its own mix of grey and blood – as its hands began to claw once more and the earth around him. Stamwell spared a thought also for the man who he had loved, his Father in life – Wil
liam Archibald – as his mutilated body lay surrounded, and covered in, the product of a life misled.

  Stamwell turned and ran towards the darkness of the tunnel leading out of the cave. This time, he did not look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stamwell welcomed the warmth rising throughout the day whilst he worked. The breeze was still cold at this time of year, particularly on the wide, unbroken expanse of Wildermoor but the sun chased away the chill and kept at bay the shivers he had woken with. As he did every day, he spent the hours breaking down the wilting and dead remnants of the winter harvest, to clear the ground for the next phase of growth. He wanted to make this land his own. Ewan had promised it to him and it would become the home he had promised Katrina.

  He wondered if he was being led down a similar path once again. Was Ewan just building him up to cut – or chain – him down again? Was he to adhere to the needs that the Childs family history dictated rather than carve out a life of his own?

  He banished the thoughts to the back of his mind. What nonsense. Ewan was indebted to him for saving his life and had rewarded him with a new start and the love of an angel. Why spoil it all with baseless paranoia? This was his new start.

  He hacked away at more of the rotten greenery, as if he were hacking down the thoughts that taunted and the dreams that haunted him.

  *****

  As the sun slowly set beneath the heavy storm clouds gathering, Stamwell returned to the derelict steel structure of the barn that had once housed the prized herd of the famed Childs cattle. He wiped a mixture of dirt and dew from the blade of the scythe and placed it gently, proudly, in its rightful place on the back wall above the dusty workbench. His thoughts ran for a moment back to a better time, years ago, when that place would have been the nerve centre for the family business; cattle reared and raised, prepared for the inevitable trip to the slaughterhouse. The crops growing strong from the tender ground. A cruel life, but an honest one. Ewan had explained that the entire village reaped the benefits during the winter months of a strong store of the finest beef and potatoes in the South West. The crops grown across the James plantation, combined with the Childs’ beef market, were supposed to have been the beginning of a new empire, as the two heads-of-house planned over many nights in the Weary Traveller.

  Stamwell often sympathised with the cattle. It was a life that Stamwell was familiar with, having seen the streams of innocents marched through the corridors of the Ministry – the name Archibald bestowed upon the dark, damp and suffocating depths of the cavern below Devil’s Pit. Many of the innocents were marched by Stamwell himself. He felt bitter about his past, blaming those around him for never offering him a life where sacrifice was actually rewarded. His parents, the Council, Archibald…the list went on.

  Turning his attention back to the cooling air around him, Stamwell spied an envelope laying to the far right of the workbench. He picked it up and examined it. It was sealed with a red ribbon, his name written on the front in handwriting he recognised.

  *****

  With a trembling hand Stamwell managed to tear open the envelope and remove the page from within, his whole body rigid with apprehension and fear. Many a letter, written by the same hand, had passed through Stamwell to William Archibald. They had never born good news. Archibald had known that his brother Julius only contacted him with demands.

  Julius’ mind had been far more poisoned than that of his brother’s and Stamwell had always blamed him for his master’s downfall. Aside from being a controlling, devious sibling, Julius also ruled the Council of Eternal Light with an iron and blood-stained fist.

  Somehow, Julius and the remaining Council members had found where Stamwell was living. He doubted that Julius had been present that night in the cavern, as he never got his hands dirty, and had too high a standing to keep his face covered in the presence of the rest of the Council. He had no faith in his brother’s ability to deliver on his promises, and Julius’ absence that night had further displayed the distrust he held for William.

  Stamwell stared at the words beautifully and carefully written on the page.

  A son for a brother; a simple trade to cleanse the blood from your hands. Return home tonight, or we will claim her too. Come alone.

  A son for a brother. William Archibald had made no secret he had viewed Stamwell as the heir he never sired. Stamwell understood the message loud and clear; Julius was asking for his life in exchange for that of his brother.

  The second line of the letter took his breath away and caused him to tear the letter into pieces before bolting straight out of the barn, his legs not stopping until he reached the homestead of Tewke’s Range. Home was not the house at the top of the hill; it referred to the pit and caves that he had left behind.

  Katrina.

  She had been peaceful in their bed when he rose that morning. She had not disturbed his day’s toil with her usual cheery insistence that he come in for lunch. He had not thought this odd at the time. His efforts had been concentrated on clearing the remainder of the land ready for the next month’s harvest. He had thought she was spending the afternoon cooking the usual evening feast that would fill their bellies before they saw the rest of the night out at The Weary Traveller. That had quickly become the lovers’ tradition.

  The guilt was overwhelming as the dastardly thoughts and images plagued his mind all the way back to the house. He had left Katrina alone, unprotected, and had not given a second thought to the dangers that might await her.

  It may already be too late. Stamwell readied himself for a second at the front door of the stone house. As he grabbed the brass handle to turn it, the pain in his shoulder returned, burning deep under the flesh and spreading. Stamwell’s breath was shallow as he forced open the door and stood in the cold, odourless kitchen.

  The only smell that filled his nostrils was light and coppery. A streak of blood traced from the staircase on the opposite side of the kitchen to where he stood at the door.

  He screamed her name as he crossed the breadth of the kitchen with two steps. His voice echoed throughout the ground floor of the building but no reply came. He rushed between the rooms either side of the kitchen – the living room to the right and the cool, dark pantry to the left. There was no trace of Katrina.

  He ascended the staircase two steps at a time yelling her name again. By the time he reached the landing at the top he knew she was gone. He could find no evidence she ever had been there. The bed was neatly made, the curtains open in each of the upper floor rooms as if she had greeted the new day and then vanished.

  Stamwell lingered in their bedroom, his mind replaying the last moments they shared together that morning. It had all seemed so normal, so peaceful, so right. Why would he think anything could go wrong? He had changed so much within a week, letting his guard down; the very strength that William Archibald had beaten into him, in order to protect their underground coven. He had abandoned everything that had made him the protector in his previous life at Harper Falls.

  Stamwell staggered towards Katrina’s small dressing table that sat at the foot of the bed, his legs feeling weak. He stared into the gold-framed mirror. His face had become drawn, his eyes rimmed with black and his hair hung lank from his head. The image of him was of a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together. As he stared at himself there was a faint titter inside his head. Laughter. Cruel laughter.

  His shoulder still burned. He touched the flesh to convince himself he was not being consumed by flames. The pain pulsed when he touched the wound causing him to throw his arm back to his side.

  Return home tonight.

  There must be a chance. He could not let Katrina pay for his sins or for his negligence and betrayal to Archibald.

  Stamwell tried walking away from the dresser but his legs buckled beneath him. As he fell to the wooden floor, his arm caught hold of the wardrobe door causing it to fly open as his weight pulled it behind him.

  He hit the floor landing on his righ
t hip but managed to catch himself in a half-sitting position. He stared up into the wardrobe and instantly the pain in his shoulder eased. His mind cleared of the fog that had clouded his thoughts. The hooded black gown hung like a beacon.

  Stamwell hauled himself to his feet, grabbed the garment and threw it roughly over his head. The warmth returned to his body but did not burn like before. He suddenly felt he could breathe again. He stomped down the stairs, out of the front door and ran back to the barn.

  He gazed around the length of the workbench, his feet pressing the pieces of the torn letter into the dirt as he marched over them. The written words were now buried in the earth, just as the words were buried deep in his soul and burned into his memory. They had awoken something deep within him, powering the cogs of something powerful, pumping a new resurgence of life through him.

  Stamwell surveyed the collection of silver on the wall above him; blades each with their own design and purpose. But there was one that he felt compelled to call upon. One he could trust. It hung there like proudly where Stamwell had rested it less than an hour earlier. He still felt chills as he gazed lovingly at the tool that had become his showpiece since moving to Tewke’s Range. Ewan had marvelled at how swiftly, concisely and expertly Stamwell handled the scythe.

  Stamwell craned his body to lift it down from the wall and stood with it as he ran his hand up the full six-foot-tall shaft, caressing the top of the three-foot-long curved blade. The scythe was an extension of his power; the power that he had been promised all of his adult life.

  Returning to the barn doors he stared out at Tewke’s Range once more, knowing that it might be his last time. The sun remained high in the sky and despite the heat already radiating through the thick dark material shrouding his body, he pulled the heavy hood over his head. It hung low covering much of his face, so that all he could see was the earth passing beneath him. He set out across the land that with love he had rejuvenated over the last week. At least he would depart leaving behind new life in this place.