Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (20 page)

The boy’s strength grew second-to-none. We all observed it.  William knew he had an asset that he could use, a son he could raise to help him gain the power he had been promised by his brother.  The boy grew to protect the old man, never questioning his motives or actions.  He had been given strength, family and a purpose. He offered loyalty in return.  That was all William wanted and it was the only thing Stamwell needed to become the man he truly was.  The one that he would become again.’

Truman stifled any pain that was setting into his fingers as the rust started slicing deeper into the skin, his fingers now struggling to keep a grip on the chain as the blood started to pool from the small wound. Stamford’s eyes still stared out of the window, giving Truman the opportunity to let out a silent sob enough to relieve the tension and keep him powering through.

Stamford suddenly brought his face back towards Truman, bringing his fingers to a halt.  He gripped the chain firmly in his hand as he tried to regain the composure he had so valiantly displayed up until then.

‘The day William was given the Ascension Rite, was the day they both sealed their fate,’ he said coldly staring deep into Truman’s tired eyes.

As Truman tried to stop the trembling that had started in his arms from the effort he heard a faint clink as the link snapped between his fingers.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The silence was deafening. It hung in the air between them and Truman could feel the weight of it undulate as Stamford’s cold gaze fixed on him.  He could feel –
hear
– the tension swing back and forth as if hanging from an invisible pendulum, its weight waiting to drop as it gathered speed.

A struggle whirled as Truman wrestled to maintain his composure, his own breathing quickening and threatening to betray him.

You’ve blown it
, the voice berated him. 
He’s on to you
.

He heard nothing
, another said reassuringly. 
He was too caught up in the sound of his own voice.  Just stay calm
.

In the end the poise that had made Truman such an effective, feared detective and interrogator started to win through.  He urged Stamford to continue, undeterred.  When no words came from Stamford, Truman realised he needed to make the first move.

‘What happened that night in the caves?  What was that…thing?’ he asked calmly, despite his body shivering.  Any warmth that was contained between the two men in the cold cell had now dissipated and Truman’s breath was turning to light fog.  He thought he saw the flicker of a smile appear across the doctor’s lips.

‘Apollyon…’ The reply was painfully hushed.

‘What
was
it?’ Truman pressed.  The pretence becoming easier for him, as his mind flooded with the images he had been exposed to in the white room, memories that had been repressed since he had woken just as they had for centuries; memories that he was desperately trying to deny were real.

‘A mistake. It was meant to be our new beginning,’ Stamford’s voice trailed off as he stared into nothingness, appearing to be hypnotised by the corner of the wall behind Truman’s bed.  Suddenly, his eyes came alive once more; a switch flicked on inside him as he broke from his trance.  Steadiness returned to his voice.

‘Julius Archibald had grown attached to the idea of an underworld since his early teens or rather it grew attached to him.  His movement into the church was merely a platform for him to acquire and groom a band of disciples who would follow him in his quest for a better world.’  Stamford’s gaze fell to the floor and he let out a short snigger.  ‘Ironic really, but it was what he wanted to achieve that set him aside from everyone else in his field.  He would stop at nothing.’

Stamford appeared to become more human as he spoke, his voice softening as he recalled the warm, sunny days from his past. 

‘An ancient book of rites came into his possession years later, and he became obsessed with one in particular; one that would raise the King of Locusts, The Destroyer.  To Julius, he was not a ruler of the underworld but God’s own bodyguard.  He thought he was on course to carry out our Lord’s work.’

‘Legend foretold of an angel who, if brought back to Earth, would reign for five months over a world of chaos, punishing those who did not follow or believe in God’s will.  To Julius, the Reformation Act of 1668 was evil in its purest form – a vain attempt by Parliament to erase hundreds of years of Christianity, to create a new religion simply to justify their own crimes.  He became obsessed with taking them down and fighting for the God he had devoted his life to. Raising Apollyon would answer his and
our
prayers to return to a greater life. He promised William – the weaker brother - eternal life and power if he could succeed in raising the New Saviour. After years of planning, research and failed attempts, the night finally came and the stage was set.’

‘Set for what?’ Truman no longer needed to mask his interest in what the doctor was saying.  Stamford looked up slowly raising his head. 

‘Ascension,’ he responded, a haunting air of deliberation surrounding the single word, ‘and the birth of our new existence.’

‘What was the purpose of all this?  What were
you
supposed to achieve?’ Truman spoke harshly.  He watched as Stamford’s eyes dropped, the maniacal flame behind them faded and cooled.  A look of despair washed over the doctor’s face, his eyes darting from side to side trying to seek the right answer.  Despair turned to disbelief as he pondered the answer.

‘Salvation, of course,’ his voice starting to tremble, stifling a tear that stung behind his dead stare.

‘At the cost of so many others?’ Truman shot back, his confidence starting to return.  ‘That is sacrifice, murder even.  Not salvation.’

‘All sins are repented through sacrifice.  It is the only way.’

‘You’re talking about a higher power that rewards heartless acts of violence, torture and murder – motived by greed and power – rewarded with the empty promise of eternal life.’  Truman’s mind was spinning, he was unsure whether he awake or even in the dark room.  Was he even still alive?

The flame had reignited behind Stamford’s stare, his face appeared carved from stone, his skin ashen.  Truman knew that it would not be long before this man would become a raging inferno with his words acting as fuel. 

‘Don’t pretend you have not dreamed of a life like this, Childs – eternal life, immortality,’ he sneered, addressing Truman with the name he possessed in a previous life.  ‘A select few have experienced it and no-one can comprehend peace such as this.’

‘Knowing you’re a murderer?’

‘Mark my words. I, myself, have never taken another life, Mr Childs.’

‘Except that of Lucas Stamwell.’  The words slid off his tongue as if gliding over wet silk. Truman had cut through Stamford’s armour piercing the skin.  Now he wanted to go deeper beneath the flesh. ‘You took that man’s life – a man I regarded as a brother. He stood alone against your kind, against the life of misguidance that had been bestowed upon him.  A man brought up under the law of the unlawful, of the megalomaniacal. He wanted nothing more than his own life – an honest life, a life of truth.’  Truman stopped momentarily bringing his breathing under control.  ‘A life my sister could have given him.’

‘No man should have to live a life so lonely to devote it to any other person than himself,’ Stamford whispered.  ‘Every man deserves power, a chance to create his own destiny and rule his own world, no matter how vast or small it may be.  But this can only be achieved by making the right choices.’

‘So you took it upon yourselves to choose it for him?  To force upon him once more an existence he did not want.’

‘His destiny was written the night of the Ascension.  He was chosen.  We merely set him free.’

The silence hung once more between them adding extra weight to the tension that continued to thicken.  Truman ran his fingers through the broken chain. He comforted himself with the thought that he still had one more ace to play when the time came.  The waiting was now making his nerves ache.  He wanted to close his eyes and return to a place not consumed by dark or blinded by light. Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.  In order to return to a place like that he would have to break the silence.

‘What becomes of
your
soul after all of this?  Who will save you?’

Once again the ferocity in Stamford’s stare began to die.  Truman thought he could see a glint of light appear in the corner his eyes.  It was a tear forming. It streaked and fell from Stamford’s cheek, as he stood motionless, staring at nothing.

No more tears followed; no sobs.  Truman had to strain to convince himself that the man was still breathing.  He fought the urge to ask him if he was okay. His concern for Stamford’s wellbeing was beginning to rise.  Physically, he seemed in perfect shape for a man his age but, mentally this man was not well.

Eventually, Stamford’s eyes began to move and the muscles in his face started to contract and loosen again.  Within the short time since Truman had regained consciousness he had witnessed Stamford’s demeanour change at least four or five times. He thought back to their first meeting and how quickly he had turned from the warm, welcoming health worker to a crazed psychopath worried Truman.

His eyes stared at the floor, then quickly darted and fixed on the wall behind Truman.  Truman had the urge to turn around and find the source of Stamford’s fixation but in doing so would have freed his right arm from its supposed position shackled to the bed frame giving the game away completely.

Looking into Stamford’s face as much as he could in the rapidly fading light he saw that beneath the surface of his skin floated hundreds of souls, all trying to break free and make themselves known.  His reactions to comments Truman had made – the bipolar nature of them – was as if each soul was called forward to answer for him.

Had Stamford brought this unfortunate affliction on himself or was he too being controlled?

Truman was brought back from the comforting depths of his own mind when the silence was finally broken.

‘Our fates have already been written…’ Stamford’s voice rasped, his speech the only movement across his whole body, his eyes still staring over Truman’s left shoulder.  There was something else about the way he said it.  The man actually sounded frightened.  ‘We all serve a purpose to work towards a greater good and serve a higher power.’ It sounded like he was reciting a mission statement. Stamford swallowed loudly trying to lubricate his dry throat.  They both felt the heat rise within the cell despite the cold walls still glistening with damp.  The moisture in each man felt as though it were slowly evaporating.

Truman closed his eyes against the growing warmth trying to transport himself back to his happy place.  But nothing worked.  The heat fuelled the visions he had when he opened his eyes.  He found himself standing alone in the middle of a vast plain somewhere across the scarred face of Wildermoor.  The shadows slowly raising from the ground, growing to heights of six-foot and more, the lowest trails of the darkness transforming into two separate slithers of black, becoming more solid as they morphed into legs.  As Truman looked around pin-pricks of red appeared, disappeared and then re-appeared.  Thousands of red burning eyes stared at him hungrily.

The dark figures parted revealing one much larger.  This one was made of more material – a trailing black robe, topped with a heavy hood, masking the face below.  The weapon in his hand was familiar; a large curved blade atop a tall oak shaft.

These figures were not the most disturbing element of his vision.  As he looked around him
,
the faint shrieks grew louder behind him – the screams of hundreds of souls
.

Burning.

He could smell it. The fields were ablaze around him.  He could feel the heat cooking his skin, his cheeks growing tighter, followed by the skin under his eyes and around to the back of his neck.  He was starting to burn along with all of the poor souls who had been left behind.

And he was powerless to stop any of it, to stop the hooded figure from advancing.  The Reaper had found him and was coming for him.

The vision was taken over by the brightest white light – another he recognised but did not fear. Evelyn would come with the light to take him away and make him safe again.

Truman’s eyes flew open as he gasped, trying to refill his lungs.  He was once again surrounded by darkness, the air feeling as chilled as it was before.  And Stamford still stood before him staring, barely present at all.

The vision woke Truman’s senses more than ever been before.  Suddenly everything became clear to him.  And that was what frightened him most of all.  It was the knowing.

His body started to tremble again uncontrollably.  He turned towards Stamford, determined to break him from his trance, believing at last he knew the truth. 

‘They’re going to kill you, aren’t they?  If they don’t get what they want.  That’s what you’re scared of.’

Stamford’s eyes moved and fixed on Truman’s. 

‘Everybody is going to die.  They have what they want.  It has already begun.’

Truman looked down at himself, still chained to the bed, forgetting he had a chance of escape. One free arm was no good.  He felt powerless to save himself, as he had centuries ago, unable to stop the inevitable.

‘What purpose do
I
serve in all of this?’ He pleaded.

Stamford’s head cocked back up straight atop his neck, the lights seeming to come back on in his mind, again as though Truman had found an invisible switch.  He responded with a sick smile, rolling off his forked tongue.

‘You don’t have one.’

The words did not mean anything to Truman. He barely noticed that the doctor had spoken.  His attention was locked squarely on the item in Stamford’s right hand and the syringe, larger than the last one, with a needle four inches in length, as he advanced towards where Truman lay.

Helpless.
 

Once more Truman failed to believe he could stop what was about to happen to him.  The doctor was upon him with two steps, too quickly for Truman to act.  He could think of no smart way to escape this time for there wasn’t one.  He was chained up like an animal about to be euthanized.  Every movement played out in slow motion but still it felt too quick for him to act.