Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty

The sun broke through the canopy of the trees overhead, chasing the remnant of the cool night air away, making way for another day.  The flecks of warmth soothed his cheek as he slowly started to regain consciousness.  His ears absorbed every sound around him; every flutter of the leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant birdcall welcoming the sunrise and the howl from a dog hidden away amongst the trees.  His nostrils flared as he drew in his first deep breath and the smell of damp mould with it.  The smell was much too close.

The skin on his left cheek, unlike his right, felt taut.  It too told him that the ground was sodden and cold. March evenings were still chilly. The effort it took to slowly raise his head from the forest ground surprised him.  He was not prepared for how little strength he appeared to have left in his body.  His head sank back down and became one again with the dank ground.  His eyes grew heavy as he struggled to resist the allure of sleep.  He had no idea how long he had slept for already and why it had done nothing to rejuvenate his senses. He had no idea where he was. 
Too many questions for this time of the day.  Just let me sleep some more.

The sudden rustle of dry leaves, from a spot dried by the morning sun, startled him so that his eyes opened almost as soon as they had closed. Relieved, he realised that he was not alone.

The footsteps grew closer, muted along the way by the carpet of wet leaves.  Whoever they belonged was no small man. 
That’s if they belong to a man at all
, a thought that started Truman’s heart thumping harder.  He was in no fit state to fend off any kind of attack or predatory intention.  Instinctively, his hand bunched into a fist in readiness, clasping a thick clump of mud as it did so.

A huge foot stopped a few inches from his face, causing his hand to loosen its grip on the forest floor.  A mud-ball was not going to help against anyone this big and monstrous.

A large paw grabbed his shoulder and gave a gentle shrug. Then a deep, gruff voice spoke down from above. 

‘I didn’t think you were going to make it.’

Thanks for the reassurance
.  He had not yet regained enough strength or awareness to determine whether he was awake, dreaming, alive or dead.  Was that really something he had to decide for himself?  Right now?  Couldn’t someone just give him a sign instead?

The boot rose slightly and leapt towards Truman, connecting with his upper shoulder and forcing him onto his back.  A shock of pain rushed across from his shoulder to his wrist. 
Yep, that’ll do it
.  Apparently you can’t feel pain in dreams so this had to be real.

Excess clumps of dried mud fell from Truman’s cheek and brushed his mouth as he drew in as much air as he could.  The air tasted fresh, even though his mouth felt stale.  He gazed up towards the ceiling of green and welcomed the spots of yellow sun that broke through.

‘Here,’ the voice said again, bring Truman’s attention back to the man-mountain stood over to him, a hand reaching down towards him as the figure stooped down lower on his trunk-like legs and presented him with a bunch of bright red berries.  ‘It’s not much,’ he continued regretfully, ‘but it should see us through the first day.’

Truman looked up at his face, confused.  Stamwell saw the man’s brow crease.

‘Who…,’ Truman managed to force from between his dried lips, ‘Where…’ he added craning his head up in an attempt to survey his surroundings.

‘We have time to talk,’ Stamwell said, ‘but now, you must eat.’ He offered his open hand once more.  ‘We must move before the sun is too high.  We must move with the shadows whilst we can.’

Silently, Truman accepted the fruit.  The taste was sharp and sour, but the rush of saliva in his mouth felt good.  Greedily he devoured the rest of the bunch before looking guiltily up at the man who had helped him.

‘Don’t worry,’ Stamwell reassured him, ‘I ate before plotting out our best path.’

There was a silence as Truman sat up, wincing at the pain that woke in all of his joints.  His head pounded as he struggled with a momentary bout of vertigo.  Stamwell helped him to his feet, taking the burden of most of Truman’s weight. 
This would be a long journey
, he realised.  He had allowed four days, hoping that this man would last the distance and that they would get enough of a head start.  They would surely be tracked and followed as soon as the light allowed it

Stamwell was not sure that the beast was dead and did not want to take any chances.  Gathering the battered hessian sack that hung loosely from the nearest elm tree, Stamwell carried Truman as they both hobbled into the safety of the trees, escaping the emergent daylight.

The first hour passed in silence.  Fatigue was partly to blame, as the men battled the trek with their own physical wounds.  The mental scars that they had suffered formed a casing over their minds, protecting them from any sights and sounds that projected through the forest but the images of what they had both witnessed played over and over again behind their eyes, offering no means of escape.

The cover of the trees stretching for miles, their entire horizon a blanket of greens, browns and a shade of deathly-black.

The further they walked, Truman regained the strength in his legs and his back straightened enough to be able to support his weight again.  His face still bore the brunt of the blows he had sustained.  The mud remained caked on his left cheek but protected the deep cut that had sliced through his flesh.  Even now he was not aware of the extent of his injury or what had caused it.  He just knew that it hurt.  Not searing, as it had been the first time he had tried to move and touch the affected parts of his body, but now its entirety throbbed in a single dull ache.

He had no idea who the big man was as he followed; another moment of instinctual trust when he had not asked any questions.  He did not know the man’s motives, but could
feel
his good intentions.

Truman felt unease flood over him, a sudden sense of dread and he could not explain why.  With every step he was trying to piece together
why
he was
where
he was.  He tried to think of home; of somewhere he last felt safe. And of someone he had loved and who had loved him.

His mind was blank.  Not because he had never felt safe or loved, but because his memories were fading.  The man he was – everything he used to be – was disappearing.

As if on cue, Stamwell spoke. 

‘What is your name?’

Truman stopped dead in his tracks, thinking the question over more times than he should have needed to.  He was being tested; that was why he was here, this man had been sent to help him discover himself.

Darkness still shrouded Truman’s mind blocking his thoughts.  Slowly, sullenly he answered.

‘I only wish I knew.’

With a touch from the man-mountain’s hand on his shoulder the world around him rushed away.  He watched as the trees surrounding him, the ground beneath him and the sky above him disappeared into an all-consuming void. At the end of the void shone a light so bright, he could see it although it was many miles away. The light rushed towards him until once again he was back in the room of white.

Chapter Twenty-One

This time he knew to open his eyes straight away and that no discomfort would come from the glare.  Once more, his pain ceased to exist and warmth bathed his naked body.  His mind was busy trying to decipher the pictures he had just seen, just felt. 
He had been there, hadn’t he?
  This question remained unanswered as once more, upon the effervescent horizon, he watched a figure approach with the same effortlessness with which Lorraine had moved.

This time it felt different again.  Without seeing any features, face or hearing a voice, he already knew this person.  Once again it was a woman. But this time it was
the
woman; the one that he had spent his entire existence looking for.

He could feel it rise from the pit of his stomach as she approached.  His feet no longer felt as though they were touching the warm, pulsating floor. For the first time since waking up in the white room, his body felt alive – not just content, relaxed and serene but actually
alive
.  He felt the blood rushing through his veins. He felt in tune with every single atom in the universe and the feeling only grew stronger as she drew closer.

Her night-black hair swayed as she walked, just as it always had. When he finally saw her face, he was relieved to find that she still had the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.  She was in every way as perfect as she had ever been.  Her skin was pure and blossom white, just as it was the last time he had seen her.

Long ago. 
So long ago
.

She did not have to speak before he knew it was her.

‘Evelyn,’ Truman said breathlessly, a smile never leaving his face.  His eyes started to sting again for the absence of tears.

She returned his smile sweetly. 

‘Hello Ewan,’ she purred, ‘I’ve been waiting so long for you to find me.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

March 10
th
1684

Stamwell stirred constantly throughout the night and woke the next morning with a fever.  The crisp white sheets clung to him through the sweat that had seeped from his relentlessness.  The throbbing in his head was affecting his sight.  The four days and nights spent in the forest, tracing and re-tracing their steps to try and find their way out of the trees and towards the safety of home, had taken its toll.

The wound across his shoulder had re-opened again during his fitful sleep.  Every night since they had reached Tewke’s Range three nights earlier, he had woken to find the sheet beneath him blood-stained.  The wound must be causing his fever; an infection was surely setting in.  The skin was raging hot and painful to the touch.  He must make the journey into town to see the doctor or ask Ewan to call him to the house.  He sat up in bed making the same promise he made each morning.  He knew he would not follow it through.  He had never had the need for doctors in the past.  Father Archibald had always been able to provide the care that Stamwell needed, which was never often.  Archibald had often remarked at Stamwell’s strength physically, inside and out.

As he sat on the bed, goose bumps running over his arms and chest responding to the chilled air hitting his clammy flesh, he looked over to see that she was still there.  Her perfect body, turned away from him as she slept on her side, but still there for him to marvel at unashamedly.  She was the most perfect creature he had ever seen.

Ewan was not entirely pleased with the courting that had occurred between his twin sister and Stamwell after the first night of their return, but he could see that in one day Stamwell had made Katrina happier than she had been in her twenty-one years prior.  He also owed the man his life so had no option but to give his blessing. 

Katrina was not like most other women. She possessed a man’s mind, owing to the years that she had been raised under the protection of her father, three brothers and every other father in the village.  She had been brought up as a fighter and a grafter.  In the absence of Ewan and their father, she had taken the reins of both Tewke’s Range and The Weary Traveller, ready for the men to take over once more upon their return.

Katrina and Ewan often shared the same thoughts. She had prayed for her brother and father each night they were away. However, one night she had awoken knowing that only one of them was going to return.  At sunrise, she had sent two of the farmhands from Tewke’s Range into the forest to help bring them home.  Later that night, she had run into Ewan’s arms as he had entered The Weary Traveller at last, his body visibly broken and shaken.  With him he had brought another man, who emitted the air of a protector. Her first contact with Stamwell had been a gentle touch to one of his thick arms and a kiss on his cheek as she had whispered a heartfelt ‘Thank you.’

It had been the first moment that she had felt the surge of electricity from a man, a spark. There was something else about him that had drawn Katrina to him. She felt safe with him. Growing up, she had always felt shielded around the village as every man and watched out for her, and their sons longed to be with her.  But standing in front of Stamwell, she had barely noticed there was anyone else around.

Likewise, Stamwell had felt lost within her green eyes. She possessed a child-like innocence that he wanted to protect, but such a womanly presence that he wanted to gather her up in his arms and disappear to anywhere that they could be alone. Her green eyes, her auburn hair, the curves of her perfect body; he wanted her then, all for himself. Stamwell realised then that there were emotions that he had never felt whilst living within the confines of the Council.

Whenever she laughed it pulled at his heart. He had spent that night by her side watching her drink ale by the pint with the regulars who were all celebrating Ewan’s return, whilst also toasting the memory of their lost friend, Katrina and Ewan’s father, Edward. When she had cried for her father Stamwell had cradled her in his arms, racked with guilt at being the one who had caused her pain, recalling how he had fed his body to the demonic pack of dogs.. Stamwell had been thankful that at the end of the night, he did not have to say goodbye to Katrina. He returned home to Tewke’s Range with his hand in hers and that is how they stayed.

After learning of the death of their father, Ewan had taken over as the head of Tewke’s Range in honour of Franklin and Evelyn James and took his responsibility for Katrina’s safety as seriously as their father had.  In Stamwell he saw someone he knew would protect and take care of her.  They had been inseparable since they had met, but Stamwell still found time to tend to the remnants of the James family land.  He rose at dawn and was next seen at sundown heading to the Weary Traveller with Katrina in tow, where they would take up residence in the shaded far corner of the inn, cosy next to the roaring open fire.

It was an idyll that Stamwell had never experienced or dreamed of.  Although he had served Archibald loyally for years – since owing his life to the priest – he had never known that kind of life existed.  He had been promised power and domination.  The start of his new life at Tewke’s Range had shown him how wrong his old master had been, that his kind of power was not what every man craved. He hated Archibald for it before he started missing him again. He had been close to the Father for many years and the feelings he once held were hard to forget.

The wound throbbed enough for Stamwell to take in a sharp breath, waking Katrina, who jumped at the sound.  She turned over onto her right side to find him grasping his shoulder.

She trailed her slender finger across his back to comfort him.  Silently, she was letting him know she was there.  He flashed a flicker of a smile.  A sign of their infatuation with each other was their ability to communicate their love without words.  Stamwell then rose from the bed and disappeared beyond the cover from the stone wall, into the adjoining bathroom.

The faint moonlight from outside that softly illuminated the bedroom and the outline of Katrina’s perfect form, filtered through around the corner of the wall reflecting off the bathroom mirror.

Stamwell, as he did every morning, stood and stared into the mirror taking stock of the blemishes brought from a lifetime of toil and sacrifice.  The new wound glistened like the inky surface of the ocean at midnight.  One swipe of Apollyon’s claws had opened up the skin on his shoulder stretching down to his chest.  The blood shone black in the moonlight. The wound appeared to pulsate, opening and closing with every beat of his heart. 
Just an illusion
. 
It must be the light playing tricks on me in the mirror
.  He clasped his right hand once more over the open wound attempting to hold the skin closed.  As the pressure lifted, albeit it for a moment, his mind flickered back to his last night in the cave…

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.