The Scars of Saints

by Unknown

“You want to know more?” Phillipe asked, as if he were surprised.

  “How did you know where the pendant was in the church?” Cervis asked, “I have been inside that church a thousand times, yet knew not of that eastern passageway.”

  “We can wait until András returns before we explain more,” Phillipe assured him, his expression giving away his growing anxiety. Cervis bit his lip inquisitively, before shaking his head.

  They didn’t trust him.

  “I didn’t see anyone else at the church,” Cervis replied, stepping towards Phillipe, “are you sure András went in as well?”

  “Yes he did,” Rian interjected, holding out his arm to block Cervis’s approach, before leaning back against the wall, brushing hair from his face, “he went in before you.”

  Cervis noticed a band around Rian’s wrist, a speckled red band, made from steel. His upper forearm revealed a brandishing, what appeared to be a head of a bull, burnt into his skin. He had attempted to hide it with a cotton handkerchief.

  Cervis turned his attention to the girl again. She was watching Rian, her expression now one of admiration. Cervis watched on as she grumbled, inelegantly sliding close to Rian leaning in to whisper.

  “Let’s get out here, just you and me, like old times,” Cervis heard her insist to Rian, tugging on his ragged sleeve, “I can’t stand to be in this rancid old room much longer.” She stroked Rian’s face, her cheeks red and flushed. She eyed off the tiny escape hole now visible near the old church bell, and winced. Cervis figured she hated enclosed spaces as much as he did.

  Shaking his head in disagreement, Rian leaned closer to Sully so their nearby awaiting company couldn’t overhear. The faint whisper was inaudible, so Cervis turned his attention away from the conspiring pair.

  Sully grumbled, hurt by Rian’s apparent denial. She reverted to her pout for a brief moment, before turning back to Rian, “who is this anyway? He looks like he might be dead.”

  The injured man Röark rescued from the forest remained unconscious on a pile of crusted hay.

  “Just keep your head about you,” Rian requested, “let’s just wait for András to return. I know he will.”

  Loud roars outside lured them silent. They listened as scurrying footsteps tore the gravel sleeping in the gardens outside in what sounded like a sizable group of people flanking the tower.

  “Cervis!” an angry voice rattled, “you in there? Come out now!”

  Retreating backwards, Cervis grasped his chest, wheezing in fright. His eyebrows quivered, his eyes grew glassy. There was a soft rapt on the door.

  “They’re outside!” Cervis whimpered, turning to Phillipe.

  Not responding, Phillipe stared into space, his expression blank. He then pressed his index finger gently to his lips in a bid to urge the group to remain silent. Reaching over Sully, Phillipe squeezed his index finger and thumb together to extinguish the flame with a delicate sizzle. Darkness again engulfed the room, a cocktail of lingering smoke mixing with the damp, stale air.

  “You can’t hide, Cervis!” a taunting female voice carried, over more shouts and screaming, “we will find you!” Scratches on the outside walls, and the clanging of tools against the old brick reverberated inside the room.

  A succession of almighty knocks battered the old wooden door, shaking its foundations. The withered hinges barely withstood the barrage, creaking with brittle resistance. The door’s outline exuded an orange glow, an indication flame torches lit the darkness outside.

  “Impossible,” Phillipe whispered, “they cannot know we are in here.”

  “They must have seen Röark leave,” Cervis muttered, crouched in a corner, listening to Sully’s heavy breathing next to him.

  They sat in silence, listening to the activity surrounding the clock tower. Time seemed idle. Frozen in darkness, humid and awash with sweat, Cervis made a decision.

  “I’m just going to take this pendant back to the church,” he insisted, the scratching of his sandals on the stony floor echoing as he climbed to his feet, “and I’ll just explain that when I - ”

  “No, you cannot do that,” Phillipe insisted, relighting one of the candles, casting shadows over his darkened eyes exemplifying his serious expression, “you simply cannot.”

  “I have to,” Cervis replied, shakily.

  “It’s too late, it won’t fix anything,” Phillipe assured him, “just hand it over to me.” Phillipe held out his skinny arm.

  Fumbling the pendant in his fingers, Cervis pondered, his eyes locked on the treasure. No bigger than his open palm, the pendant was shaped like a fig, the tip pointed, and the bottom curved. Made from what appeared to be silver, the centre of it held a bulging sphere. A mixture of blue and green mist circled inside, like a small cloud of colourful ink, whirling round and round.

  “What’s so special about it?” Cervis asked, transfixed by the kaleidoscopic display within the pendant’s sphere.

  “It once belonged to a witch-doctor, Hyclid Van Wëegan,” Phillipe said, his tone still calm and eyes also on the pendant, offering the story as a truce to control Cervis’ threat.

  “So it’s been said,” Sully added, resting beside Rian, the glowing outline of the doorway casting shadows over her bony cheekbones, “I think it’s all just a fake.”

  Put off by Sully’s inclination, Rian’s lips pursed, his eyes locked on the doorway, “Phillipe and I found evidence in the archives of the Galati Library. I saw them with my own eyes, hundreds of old transcripts penned by Hyclid himself, proving his existence and detailing his trip to England and France. There was also evidence that suggested his murder happened right here, in Orlat.” Rian tapped the floor with his fingers.

  Sully shrugged with defiance. “You told me the transcripts were damaged.” She was never taught to read, rendering her ill-equipped to accompany Rian to any work that required it. She never hid her contempt, clearly self-conscious of her lack of skills.

  “Hyclid was murdered in Orlat, in that very church,” Phillipe said, clearly sick of trying to prove his case, “and Cervis found Hyclid’s pendant buried in the church. There is no coincidence in that.”

  Suddenly, Phillipe’s eyes rolled into the back of his skull, and his mouth fell limp. Rian dropped to his knees beside Phillipe, resting his hands against the side of his head, almost catching him as Phillipe fell. Watching in curiosity, Cervis frowned, clenching his fingers around the stolen pendant.

  “What’s happening to Phillipe?” Cervis asked, concerned at Phillipe’s sudden unconsciousness.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Rian pledged, his focus on the convulsing Phillipe, “he sees things, he has visions,” Rian explained, without looking up.

  “Visions?” Cervis replied, frowning, “I don’t understand.”

  “I cannot quite explain. He has a special sense,” Rian continued, keeping his attention to the shaking Phillipe. His jaw clenched shut, his body shook ferociously. Then, as quickly as it began, he stopped shaking, his body falling flaccid. Waking with a splutter, Phillipe’s eyes grew wide, his glasses falling from his face.

  “W...w...we’re too late,” he aired with a stutter, closing his eyes, trying to control his breathing.

  “Too late?” Cervis asked, stepping towards Phillipe, “what do you mean?”

  In an almost instinctive reaction, Rian again stepped out to block Cervis’s access to Phillipe, whose head remained lowered. Raising his hands in surrender, Cervis paused.

  When he finally lifted his head, Phillipe inhaled deeply.

  “We need to leave. The evil here in Orlat is dark. It’s darker than whence we’ve tread before. We need to leave immediately.”

  “But what about András,” Sully squealed. “Is he…?”

  The unconscious wounded man in the corner erupted into an explosion of coughs and splutters, remerging back to life in an almost animated way, gasping for air.

  CHAPTER 7.

  Hiding in an empty market stall alongside the path behind the lumberjack’s cottage, Röa
rk felt faint. A wave of dehydration overcame him disguised as a throbbing headache. He noticed a bag of barley, along with a container of water recently drawn from the well. Digging into the straw bag, Röark swallowed handful after handful of barley. He then drank the water, finishing it all in practically one gulp. Dropping down in relief, he rested beside two wooden planks, the foundations of the flimsy stall. This was the Rhéinberger’s stall, normally touting wheat, roasted chickpeas and a variety of nuts farmed from the property a few miles down the road. It was busy during the high trade season. Today, it was empty.

  Nearby, Röark heard unrecognisable female voices, chatting vigorously as they swapped gossip, following the path beside the stall.

  “It’s quite beautiful here,” one voice said, her accent harsh.

  “There’s no sea, nor port,” the other replied, “I cannot see the village survive without as such.”

  “It’s pretty,” the other said, “and quiet. You don’t have this peace down south.”

  “Nor the sea,” the other reminded, sternly. Their footsteps crunched gravel as they walked. But they paused, right beside the stall in which Röark hid. He squeezed his eyes shut, and groped his chest. Blood oozed onto the floor from his wound.

  “Do you think this is the house?” one of the ladies whispered, as if she were only inches from Röark.

  “I trust it is. I trust with all my heart. May we see the journey to the end,” the other responded, cryptically.

  “To think, the next journey is the Grand Hall. To think we might have passage.”

  “Yet don’t be hasty,” the other female voice chimed, a tone of discouragement, “there is much to do.”

  “If it is the house, and the bloodline, and the faith are correct, might this be the end of the Censu?”

  “I hope that might be the case,” the women said, “but I am sure the gracious teachings of Aevum will take care of us,” replied the other, “now we’d best make haste to the church, Father Arkayis is waiting for us, I have heard a blessing is to take place. A sacrifice, one of the Censu!”

  ---

  Inside the clock tower, Phillipe knelt down, placing his palm on the wounded man’s shoulder urging him to quieten his coughing. The injured man inhaled deeply, arching his back, his eyes rolling back into his head. His mouth wide open, he managed a sickening gargle, followed by a splutter. He grasped his hay bed tight, his body tense.

  “What happened to you?” Phillipe asked him, a soft gentle tone as not to alarm the man. Turning to Sully, he motioned for her to source a cloth.

  “Keep him quiet, or they will hear us!” Sully hissed, pacing back and forward, her eyes twitching, “we gotta go. We gotta find András!”

  “Quiet,” urged Phillipe, turning to the others, “there’s a chance they’re still out there.” He turned his attention back to the sick man. “We need to fetch him some water.”

  “Water?” Sully scoffed with her usual selfishness, lingering in the back corner cowardly, “we cannot afford to waste water on him.”

  “It wasn’t long ago that I wasted water on you,” Phillipe snapped, adjusting his ill-fitting glasses “I’ll have you remember that.”

  Sully huffed in response, crossed her arms and turned away. She tugged at her hair, attempting to comb the knots out. Phillipe gently placed a hand on the man’s face.

  “I want to help you,” Phillipe insisted, trying to coerce the man to calm his breathing. Blood trickled from his mouth. Kneeling down beside Phillipe, Rian held out his arm and handed him a small patch of cloth ripped from his wolf-skin belt. Phillipe gently wiped the blood away. A moment passed, and the man was able to steady his breathing, eventually opening his eyes.

  “You’re safe,” Phillipe assured him, “can you talk?”

  His sorrowful eyes fixed on Phillipe, he raised an arm and placed his hand on his own torso, gently stroking the fur that covered him. His hand, severed of two fingers, tapped on a small clump of fur near his hip. The stubs of his severed fingers were swollen, crowned by a splotchy black rim. Yellow pus oozed freely, the wounds heavily infected. Dark green veins sprouted up his right arm.

  “His hand,” Sully gasped, leaning over Phillippe’s shoulder and covering her mouth with her hand, “and his arm…”

  “Gangrene,” Phillipe proposed. The wounded man continued to grasp his hip, his gaze still locked on Phillipe. A small token fell from a tiny pocket, and rolled onto the floor. Plucking it from the ground with his thumb and index finger, Phillipe inspected the token, spinning it around, his eyebrows lowered, deep in thought.

  “What is it?” Rian asked quietly, turning his attention away from the door where he had been peering through the crack, watching for activity.

  “It’s a trade token of some sorts,” Phillipe queried with bewilderment, spinning it around in his finger, a deep frown across his face as he investigated. “This token is old. My guess, hundreds of years old. It looks like a token used in trade along the Spanish coast. He must have robbed someone for it. He is trying to pay us I think.”

  Sully leaned closer, flinging her hair from her face, “Is it worth anything?”

  Phillipe closed his eyes, falling into a deep meditational state. Reaching out to grasp the man’s arm, he was flooded with visions flashing through the darkness - death, destruction, and pain. Screeching filled his ears, soot and dust filled his lungs. He could barely breathe, his body seizing in terror. Soon, the rumbling and the darkness dissipated, and he saw lands, empty and sparse, with thousands of terrified men and women running, expressions of horror fixed on their faces. They were running for their lives. They were running from the darkness.

  The peasants’ revolt.

  Opening his eyes quickly, Phillipe rose to his feet and took a step back.

  “This man, he was part of the peasant’s revolt,” Phillipe said, warily, “I learned of it, years ago.”

  “Go on,” Rian urged, eyes locked on the injured man.

  Phillipe found his breath, and adjusted his glasses. “Following on from the decimation by the bubonic plague throughout Europe during the twelfth and thirteenth century, peasants were forced to live in conditions of intense squalor. But then, around a century ago, peasants realised the lands were increasingly in need of labour, and with the population in crisis, they rose their cost for work. When this had the reverse effect, they turned on their rich land owners. So began the revolt, which saw the demise of hundreds of wealthy land owners. As a result, the Romanian and Hungarian armies joined forces on the instruction of the monarch King Louis. They rounded up the peasants, took them to the local woods, and -” Phillipe squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep breath, troubled by the conclusion of his tale, “and murdered them, every last one of them.”

  Silence gripped the group, as they peered at the injured man, breathing deeply.

  “That was hundreds of years ago,” Cervis said, turning in circles before beginning to pace, “how could this man have been part of that revolt?”

  Cervis and the three thieves stared at the injured man. His grip around Phillipe’s hand eased, and his eyes rolled back into his head once more. A trickle of blood flowed down his chin, a slight gargle of built up mucus and blood brewed in his mouth.

  “Perhaps he survived,” Phillipe considered, “perhaps he wasn’t murdered. Maybe there was a chance he -”

  “It simply isn’t possible,” Rian offered as advice, wrists clenched. He rose to his feet and paced back and forward.

  “I don’t understand,” Cervis said, growing ever more confused, trickles of sweat cascading down his forehead as the humidity climbed in the tiny confined room, “Röark said he found this man in the forest outside the village, along Mino’s creek bed. I have never heard of a revolt across these lands. And more so, it looks as if he’s been tortured. Do you think they tortured him and left him to die?”

  Nodding in agreement, Phillipe wiped the man’s sweat-ridden forehead.

  “I too am puzzled by it,” Phillipe said, “perhaps
his life was spared.” Phillipe searched the man’s neck, and the other tiny pocket of his clothing.

  “What are you searching for?” Cervis asked.

  “A pendant,” Phillipe explained, turning to his audience, “there is no other way he could be alive.”

  In a slow methodical grasp, the man clasped Phillipe’s tunic and lurched him forward, gargling bubbles of blood that popped over his cheeks. Sully covered her mouth in shock. Rian leapt down in Phillipe’s defence, but Phillipe rose his free arm to stop him.

  “Wait!” Phillipe urged Rian.

  “His tongue...” Cervis added, a frightened tone, his eyes filled with empathy.

  “I may be hasty in my prognosis,” Phillipe preached, staring into the man’s eyes as he shook with fever “but this man bears the lesions of a Pantianak ritual.”

  “A what?” Cervis asked.

  “The Pantianak are spirits of women who died while carrying child. It’s told they appear in darkness, dressed in white, wearing a mask made from wood. Their victims are always men, and they seek what they do not have. They remove teeth and sever fingers, then rip out a man’s tongue and pluck his eyes from his skull. It’s said this will usher their unborn child through to the afterlife.”

  Once again, the occupants of the room fell into silence. Their gazes remained fixed on the tortured man, pity in their eyes.

  Bang!

  Cervis wailed in fright, stumbling back towards Sully. Phillipe’s jerk reaction caused his glasses to fall from his head.

  Bang! Bang!

  Someone was trying to break down the door to get inside. Rolling sideways with grace, Rian lowered his body halfway into the tiny hole in the corner. Kicking his feet to try to find flooring, he flinched in frustration, turning to Phillipe.

  “I will go first,” Rian motioned, and he let his release on the stone floor go, disappearing into the darkness below.

  “Open ‘zis fucking door!” roared an angry male voice outside, a deep German accent. Burst after burst of heavy kicks rattled the feeble door, the hinges virtually giving to the pressure. Each rhythmic kick by the assailant shook the entire room, dust and debris circling furiously.