were the demons the Sacellum warned the people of. Had the time of
the last seal finally come?
Chapter 29: Blood Lust and Protection Harold hid in the rocky crevice for almost an hour listening to the priest pottering around just as if Harold was not there. He couldn’t see what he was doing but maybe that was for the best. Thankfully, he left his father’s body alone after a time. Harold was more worried about Muriel than himself. She would have woken by now and Harold had left so quickly. He hoped she wouldn’t come for him. If she did, then Harold did not think he could save her from the demon creature that Paul had become. Harold had little to do but sit and worry as he grew colder and damper. It was then that Harold noticed Paul’s journal which must have been knocked into the crevice when he upturned his table. Harold had the time, stuck with the shadows and spiders to read through it and learn what he could from it. It was hard to see it in the dim light given off by the wall mounted candles outside of his hideaway but Harold had to do something to keep his mind off what he had just seen and heard. Even while reading, the image of his father’s body slumped against the wall flashed in front of his eyes, sometimes followed by one of Muriel laid out the same.
Harold had to keep reading, maybe there was something in the diary that would help him. It turned out there was. The pages were written by a mad man but between the rants of insanity was a wealth of knowledge inside the book. It explained everything Paul knew about the Rakta Ishvara. How the race of the Rakta Ishvara was around since long before man and they survived in the muddy swamps of The Dark Gulf. Harold did not know much about the colonies but he knew they had their own religions that dated back to the time of the Titans, but how many people worshipped the Rakta Ishvara there, and how many were treated like cattle because of it? Harold wondered how many followed these false gods and for how long people had their loved ones slaughtered to feed these beasts. It was then Harold realised, if he was killed and failed to stop Paul and his creation William, then that was what would happen to the city. The creatures could gain a strong foothold before people realised and they would all fall to them. The city was so afraid of the demons in the fields they would not notice the darkness spreading in the streets around them. It would be worse than being under the ruthless rule of the Dragons again.
His mind was sucked away from its gruesome daydream by the sound of creaking upstairs. The large wooden door at the entrance to Saint Anne’s had opened and Harold could hear the clatter of shoes against the stonework. They stopped somewhere above on the ground floor. There was a click as the latch sprung open on the door to the catacombs. Whomever it was had started descending the stairs. Harold’s heart skipped a beat.
“No, not Muriel, please not Muriel.” Harold prayed to himself and waited to hear the priest move. Harold’s muscles had gone to sleep in the cold dampness but he forced them tense, determined that if Paul made one move at her, he would leap from his hiding place. Harold would probably be dead before he even wounded the demon priest but it would give Muriel time to escape.
“William?” Paul called out and Harold’s heart jumped over with happiness before realisation dawned. William being there did not bode well for him.
“Why do you use that name for me priest. You know nothing of this host remains.” William said as he continued to creep down the stairs. Harold risked sliding forward and peaking around the edge of the shaped igneous rock. William had stopped only a few feet in front of Paul and Harold waited, watching as events unfolded much to his surprise.
“I will call you by your spawn name then brother דחא תא ינשה. Ihadn’t thought I would see you again.” Paul said. Even through his death rattle Harold could sense his nerves. William remained silent. Harold wondered if he had spoken in another way. Paul had said they shared one memory. It seemed only reasonable that they could communicate the same way without the need for words.
“Stay still एक क and I will make this painless.” William hissed after whatever silent conversation may have taken place beyond his hearing. Harold risked leaning out further as William had not noticed him and Harold studied him. His clothes were torn and grubby and he looked like a beggar, with his mottled brown trousers ripped and threaded. Even from a distance, Harold could see the dried blood matted within his hair. Harold could relate to why they had once been called wolf men with his bestial appearance.
“ Butדחא תא ינשה I am one of you now, soon to be your brother, your kin.” Paul pleaded, interrupting Harold’s study of William.
“No, old man you are not. You may have one of my brothers living inside you, but you are too weak. Your sickness and weak mind make you a risk to us. Your foolish antics have already disgraced us and we will not let your pride risk ending our kind. You studied our ways but you are not of us, you have shamed us. Three million years we have existed behind the eyes of man and you risk it all.” The moment the last word slid between William’s tight lips he attacked. The fight between them both shook the very foundations of the church. The first blow that William sent crashing into Paul’s chest, should have killed the frail old man, but it did not.
Harold watched from his hiding place assessing just how strong the Rakta Ishvara made each of them. Harold had seen William kill the guard but that was back outside the hospital just after the Queens fire and they were just normal people. Paul would give him a true match of strength and Harold wanted to see just what he was up against. A hit sent Paul flailing backwards, crashing into the rear wall of the catacombs and bringing down an array of rubble and loose mortar from above. The coffins within the wall rattled as if their occupants were banging on the wall annoyed by the ruckus of their neighbours. William did not give Paul any time to recover and lunged at him again. He covered the distance between them in no more than three bounds. He sideswiped Paul with his iron-like hands across the face, sending him to the ground. Even from his relatively safe haven, Harold could hear as the bones in Paul’s face crumbled. To his sheer amazement the priest rolled as he hit the floor and was back on his feet facing William. The blood on his face seemed old, like that which you would get from a pheasant that had hung for some time before you slit its throat. It was Paul’s turn to attack and he did so quickly, swiping one of the small brass candelabras from the side wall, ripping the bricks away with it. He made for William, the burning candle held out at arm’s reach like the point of a sword. It collided with William’s neck, sending wax flying until the cold hard metal connected, tearing through the flesh. Harold closed his eyes not wanting to see the fountain of life fluid squirt free. After not hearing the splatter that Harold had been waiting for he slowly opened his eyes just in time to see William go back at Paul, the wound seemingly not affecting him as it was barely bleeding at all. It was then Harold realised the body did not matter much to the Rakta Ishvara – it was just a shell. Much like the hermit crabs Harold had played with at the beach as a boy – if the shell broke, the crab would find another, only the parasite had to survive. As if to back up his presumptions, William sank his teeth into Paul’s neck, tearing at it. Chunks of flesh fell to the ground before Paul managed to push William back. The final blow came shortly after – William pressed his fist into Paul’s chest. Harold heard his ribs crack and Harold watched as Paul’s black eyes faded to white. Paul fell forwards into William’s grasp, his legs falling out from under him. Harold knew he was dead. William pulled a small black sphere from Paul and Harold guessed it was the parasite itself. He moved towards a jar that rested in an alcove not too far from him and placed the little ball inside. Harold saw the creature inside squirm and uncoil, it was still alive.
Chapter 30: Peace for Saint Paul Harold waited for what seemed like forever after William had finished dressing his wounds before Harold even thought of leaving the chapel. After William had finished feeding on Paul, he wrapped the rags that he had ripped from Paul’s clothing around his wounds, yelping as he pulled them tight. Although his wounds would not kill him, they still seemed to have hurt Wil
liam. Even in his weakened state, Harold did not want to face William now. Harold knew he would not stand a chance. Harold would be killed before he could get close enough to kill the creature in his chest. Harold would have to leave it for someone else. He would have to rely on the city building an army to face William. Harold had the letter from Paul to the O’Brien’s and his diary now. He could actually prove his innocence.
He made his way out of the catacombs into the main church. Harold was thankful William had left. There were no clues as to where he had gone or how long ago. With no sun to tell the time it looked the same as when Harold had arrived, the only difference being the morning rain had moved off and the afternoon downpour was washing in from the front arch. Harold was not sure of the time but it could not be any later than three or four o’clock. He had spent most of the day squashed into a small corner of damp stone and his tired body yelled at him with aches and pains. Harold stood flicking through the church records and finally found what he was looking for, Paul Augustus’ address. Harold left the church of Saint Anne’s and made his way back across the city, heading to Paul’s home in the hopes he could find something more to prove his innocence. Paul’s journal would go a long way to proving it, but Harold had to be sure the guards couldn’t dispute his innocence.
The alley outside Paul’s residence was busy, bustling with traders and patrons who made their way to market. Harold knew he would have to be quick, Muriel would be worried sick and Harold was beginning to feel nauseous from fatigue. He was thankful Paul lived in such a slum area where people would be used to the sound of the collection of unpaid dues. Harold called on all the strength he had and kicked the lock just below the handle, the old wood gave way much easier then Harold had expected. A ragged old mutt who had been sniffing through a pile of rubbish close by raised his head and barked, warning him against disturbing him again before returning to his foraging but that was the only creature that seemed to take notice to Harold breaking an entry.
Inside Paul’s hovel it was black. Harold kept the door ajar while he fumbled across a shadow he presumed to be a table. Finally, his fingers rested against the matches he had been looking for and Harold slid them into his hand, careful not to drop any. Lighting them gave off a gentle glow across the room. In the centre Harold could make out a coffee table and what looked like a candle, so he made his way towards it, almost falling over a pile of books left in his path. With the candle lit, the room slowly started to light but Harold did not have to look far for what he was after. A diary, which predated the one Harold had read, was the only book not piled on the floor or hidden away in the spider-infested bookshelf. Harold was tempted to sit there and read it but he worried that, although no one looked up at him when he entered, someone may well have alerted the guard.
The sound of the rattle from outside told him Harold was right, and he bolted for the door, crashing out into the street with the diary held under his arm more protectively than most would hold a baby, and Harold ran. Ran with all the decorum of a shot fox, but Harold ran all the same. He took the side roads most of the way home, never stopping. The streets were busy, it was not easy and his chest burned with ice in the cold air. It had begun raining again, not surprisingly, the short break in the clouds fading back to darkness. Harold knew if he stopped he would not have the energy to start again and he had no idea if the guard were tracking him down or not. The last thing he wanted to do was get thrown into a cell for breaking an entry now he was so close to clearing his name. After what seemed like forever Harold fell against his front door panting, waiting for his breath to return before knocking. His legs as weak as a rotten beam, Harold waited until he felt safe before slipping the book into his left hand and rapping against the woodwork with his right. The door slid open slightly
“Harold, is that you? I was worried sick. The guard were here earlier.” Muriel said and his stomach churned over like a mason’s drill. “Are you okay, did they hurt you?” Harold asked, taking Muriel’s
face in his hand looking deep into her eyes. She pressed into his palm
and Harold felt his fear melt away, if only his exhaustion had gone with
it.
“I’m fine. They only came about the men down the street. Someone said
they saw you there.”
“What did you tell them?” Harold asked looking out through the
sodden windows to see if anyone was watching the house.
“Nothing much, I told them I was watching the place for your mother and as far as I knew you had gone with her down to Port Lust.” Muriel said.
“My mother hasn’t gone to Port Lust.” Harold replied somewhat puzzled.
“I know that. Didn’t think you’d want them going snooping where she is though.” Muriel said, smiling at him again. She always smiled, no matter what and Harold loved that about her. Muriel’s street life had given her a wisdom Harold was still trying to learn fast. Her simple lie was believed, and why wouldn’t they believe it. The guard were looking for a murderer and a prostitute, not a woman who could afford the kind of dress Muriel was wearing. Harold knew they would not return. The house was safe at last. He would still have to watch out on the streets but he could sleep safely within his own bed for the time being. The guard would send word to Port Lust and the village constables could look for him there until he had time to organise his defence. Harold sat to rest in his father’s chair and began telling Muriel what had happened. He drifted off to sleep before reaching the end of his story.
It was still dark when Harold awoke covered in a blanket Muriel must have lain over him as he slept. Harold could hear the bell towers in the distance ring out five times. Muriel must have left him in the night and gone to her room upstairs. He crept up, making sure the old stairs did not creak under his feet. Harold remembered the times he had snuck out when he was younger, and knew exactly where to put his feet so the old beams remained silent. Harold listened at Muriel’s door, her gentle breathing letting him know she was safely asleep, before making his way downstairs again where he returned to his father’s chair with Paul’s diary in his hands once more. Harold flicked through the pages reading as quickly as he could. Paul had written everything right up to the moment he hid himself away in the catacombs. Harold now had the two books he needed. One filled with the mad scribbling of a dying man, the other containing the full story of what he had done since his return from The Dark Gulf. Harold closed the book and laid it to rest above the fireplace.
Harold had been reading for hours. The sound of the bells chiming ten must have woken Muriel as Harold heard the bed springs shift and the door creaking open shortly after. Today was the first day of the rest of his life – or so Harold thought at the time. Muriel came downstairs, her hair still entangled from her sleep and already dressed in her new gown – it seemed that she now had two dresses but Harold was not sure she would ever want to wear her old one again, he would have to find the time to make her more. She sat down beside him and Harold began to talk, trying to find some answers from the night before, his memory still blank.
“So what happens now then, Harold?” She asked, fiddling with the embroidering at the edge of her sleeves. “Harold?” She repeated with such urgency Harold felt confused.
“We try to enjoy ourselves a bit.” Harold said throwing her a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. She returned it but only half-heartedly. Harold could tell Muriel was unsure if things would last between them now that normality was on the brink of returning.
“What do you mean?” She asked nervously, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“How about we go visit the palace, go watch the guards change with the rest of the toffs?” Harold hated to admit it but he enjoyed walking through the noble parts of town, the cobbled roads and statues. The noble’s houses themselves had been restored under William’s wise leadership. The irony of the best and worst person to enter the city sharing the same name was not lost on him. Although nearly all of his saving had gone, he could not reopen the shop
yet so had the time to spare.
“I don’t think it’s wise to. We should get your evidence before a noble so they can represent you in a court hearing. Just showing it to a guard won’t necessarily mean you’ll be free.” Muriel said. She was happy it might all be ending but she could tell Harold really had no idea what to do with the books he had gathered or how to use them to prove he wasn’t behind it all. She could see him handing them over to some guard who would lose them and cash in on the bounty no doubt now on his head.
“I know a noble, I used to do work for him; He’s something to do with the newspaper presses. I’ll get a courier to take word to him later today I promise.” Harold said not questioning how Muriel knew so much about the legal workings of the noble houses.
“So it’s finally over for us?” Muriel asked.
“Yes, the guard will have to find and stop William now. We know what he is and how to kill him and once the court pardon me I can reopen the shop and we can plan what we’ll do next.”
“So you still plan for it to be ‘us’ then?” Muriel asked bluntly.
“Of course Muriel, you mean more to me than I think you know. Tell me, how did you come to be on that street the day this all started? I want to know it all.”
“If I tell you Harry, will you still want to be with me?” Muriel asked and Harold nodded. He called her over with a gesture of his arms and they sat together in the armchair. For so long he had wanted to know everything about Muriel and that morning might have been his last chance.
Harold listened intently as the strong woman that he had fallen in love with melted as she started her story and told him everything.
Her mother had run away from her drunkard of a father back in Bracetire Harbour when Muriel was just five years old. They had taken a ship straight to Neeskmouth docks. Her mother changed her name shortly after arriving, wanting a new start in a new kingdom. She took her name from the current lord at that time, William’s wife, and her surname from one that seemed so common within the city, thus becoming Adelaide Smith and her daughter Muriel Smith. Neither of them could speak Neeskmouthain when they first arrived and the first few weeks were hard until Adelaide managed to get a job as a dancer at the Plucked Eagle. Things were going well until Adelaide was viciously attacked one night coming back to the board lodgings they had been staying at. She was raped and severely beaten. Her legs had been so badly damaged by the three men that had soiled her she was unable to walk properly again, let alone dance. Once her wounds healed enough to walk the harbour Adelaide took to being a sailor’s woman, having three or four ‘husbands’ that helped pay the rent and came back to visit her while they were on land instead of dancing for coin she turned to the only other trade that seemed plentiful for a women of poor birth.
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