The Scars of Saints

by Unknown

  Röark scanned the carriage. Every single occupant sat, staring at him. Their eyes were desperate, their expressions fraught.

  “Why am I here?” Röark asked. “Where is this train going?”

  Outside, a gush of smoke rushed past the tiny window, ejected from the spout at the front of the train. A soft toot resounded.

  “Hush,” the short man urged, pressing a dirty finger on Röark’s lips, “stay quiet. They will hear us.”

  Light-headed and confused, Röark spotted a brandishing on the man’s forearm – a bull’s head.

  Again pushing his back up against the wall of the carriage, Röark battled an immense wave of nausea. His dilemma to control his fear was constantly distracted by the bouts of eyes watching him. He closed his eyes and lifted his head. The unstable rocking of the carriage unsettled his stomach, the dizziness blurring his vision. The wound on the back of his head began to ooze thick blood again, continually sticking to the splintered timber wall like molasses. He began to breathe slowly, in, then out, and again. The damp, repugnant air did little to stem the sickness.

  Over in the corner, a few more restless cries from livestock, and the shuffle of hooves. Startled prisoners tried to get Röark’s attention, calling out. But he blocked them out, the noise, the smell, the pain. The sweat from his forehead trickled into his closed eyes and burned. Gasping in anguish, he remembered his mother. He felt the man beside him creep closer towards him.

  “Who are you?” Röark asked the old man, his eyes still shut.

  It took a moment before the man responded.

  “If I tell ye, will ye abandon us?” was the eventual reply.

  Lowering his head and opening his eyes, Röark scowled.

  “What do you mean?” Röark muttered, his limp body rocking with the corners of the moving carriage.

  “They came down and they took us,” the man explained, his voice growing shaky, “we never did no harm. They came and took ye, do you hear me? The children, they couldn’t fight. And the women, they took the women. Now they take us to a new home.”

  A naked lady and child chained across the other side of the cabin began whimpering, tears forming in the child’s eyes. They tugged on their restraints, and the woman cried out in anguish.

  “Be silent!” begged the old man, coughing explosively after his demand. He collapsed to the filth-ridden floor, clutching his throat.

  “Who took them?” Röark asked, eyes on the collapsed man.

  Rising to his feet slowly, the man again leaned forward, clutching Röark’s forearm. His grip was weak, his hands clammy.

  “We don’t choose to live beneath the ground, the sewers are the only safe place for us. They protect us. We live there for safety. Bucharest is a town driven mad. It is no place for us to live.”

  “You live in the sewers?” Röark asked, bewildered.

  “They came down there, they came for us. They told us Aevum will save us, help us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Röark replied, his voice shaky, “what-”

  “They said we can be saved, that our sins will be forgotten. That our women will live and the children be safe.” The man’s voice grew louder, more determined. His eyes widened. Dark saliva seeped from his mouth, laced with dirt and blood, “only Aevum will cure us of the plague.”

  Röark didn’t know how to respond. He drew breath after breath, eyes locked on the poor, helpless man. Other prisoners nearby grew more restless, whimpering and crying, wailing for forgiveness.

  “I need to get out of here,” Röark murmured, looking around desperately for a way to escape, “I need to find my mother.”

  He scanned the entire carriage, walls and floors sealed by wood and hard steel. The chains that bound him seemed rusted and fragile. He tugged at them twice, his strength triggering them to rattle strenuously. He faced forward, ready to stand. He then noticed along the wall furthest from him was a small oval door. Beside it, the large sleeping man covered in a blanket.

  Röark rose to his feet, swaying slightly. A foreboding headache continued to rip through his skull, thumping periodically. The train turned a slight corner, and he lost his footing for a brief moment.

  “Ye mustn’t!” pleased the old man, reaching out to grab Röark as he made his way towards the door, “ye must help us, please! Don’t let them take us there!”

  “Take you where?” Röark asked, turning back to look at the man, “where is this train going?”

  “Our new home, away from our old home.” the old man squealed, bouncing sideways, his chain extending to its limit and flinging him backwards, causing him to roll across the floor, “they can’t take us there!” Reacting to the noise, the other chain-bound prisoners began howling, growing ever more restless, shaking their chains in terror.

  The huge sleeping man beneath the woollen blanket mumbled, woken from his slumber. He groaned loudly, and immediately the other prisoners fell deathly silent. They all turned their attention to the waking giant, their eyes wide, quivering. One of the naked women covered her child with her body and sobbed, the tiny child’s feeble arms clasping around her filthy torso. Another male prisoner covered one of the clothed ladies, blocking her from sight the best he could. Two others began chanting soft prayers, head down, their bodies trembling, chains limiting their movement.

  Röark stopped where he was, in the centre of the carriage, his rusted chains extended as far as they could.

  “Wer ist dran!” growled the giant in German, tossing the blanket aside. The burly man rose, enormous arms joined to an obtrusively large torso, hairy eyebrows, deep black eyes and a crooked nose. He gnashed his teeth, and spat savagely.

  Röark dared not make a move.

  “Come back,” urged the old man, his voice behind Röark shrill and afraid. “Come back from there. He is one from beneath the sewers of Bucharest, the one they call the sewer cannibal,” the old man whispered, “ye don’t speak to him, ye musn’t.”

  Röark’s heart began beating with ferocity. The humidity felt as though it was stripping the oxygen from the enclosed carriage.

  “Lassen sie mich!” the cannibal roared, shaking his chains in rage, large amounts of saliva and blood spitting from his mouth, “lassen sie mich!”

  The two frightened calves in the corner rose to their feet urgently, and clambered sideways, jittery and nervous. The lamb cowered closer to the corner, bleating in a pitiful manner. The train turned another corner, and the animals lost their footing, sliding sideways, the skittering of their hooves rattling off the wooden walls. The lamb tumbled in a poor display of coordination, and ended up against the other side of the carriage, bleating in terror. It knocked over one of the chain-bound prisoners, causing him to topple sideways, hitting his head on the floor. Within seconds, the cannibal leapt forward, slamming his body weight down onto the man, the hyper-extension of his chains giving off a strained chink yet without hindering his surprisingly nimble movement.

  The other occupants of the carriage wailed in terror, slippering backwards and sideways in a bid to escape the cannibal’s reach.

  The cannibal’s huge frame almost crushed the helpless prisoner as he bit down into his neck, growling ferociously. The victim flailed his legs as best he could, restrained by chains, and wailed in distress. Deep red blood covered the cannibal’s face, his eyes rolling back in his head as he took several more chunks from the man’s jugular. Then, like a wolf with its prey, he tore off the man’s stained white shirt with his yellow jagged teeth, and ripped strips of skin from his torso with three large bites.

  With a woosh, the train entered a tunnel, and everything went black. The screaming of the prisoner reverberated through the carriage, mixed with the horrified squeals and cries of the livestock scattering back and forth.

  “Come back!” the old man’s voice rung in the darkness.

  Without hesitation, Röark took the tiny man’s advice, and fell to his knees, pushing his legs to slide backwards, away from where the massacre was underway. Within secon
ds the victim’s screams reduced to intermittent whelps, and Röark overheard the slurps and growls of the cannibal tearing flesh from his victim’s body.

  “Aevum will save us!” cried a prisoner, “please Aevum, please save us!”

  Woosh! – The train exited the tunnel and light was strewn in again. The cannibal’s face donned a deep purple mask of blood and flesh, bits of skin hung from his teeth, his eyes now locked on the old man beside Röark.

  “No Aevum, only lies,” the cannibal murmured in English, his lip curling, emitting a slurping sound as blood cascaded down his throat and chest.

  And there, on his lower forearm – a brandishing of a bull’s head, just like the old man.

  The cannibal lashed forward in Röark’s direction, but his chains extended to their limit. Abruptly thrown backwards, he was thwarted from his attack. Bouncing off the back wall, he recovered quickly and gnashed his teeth, before gargling and hissing at Röark. The giant cannibal leapt forward again, his heavy body putting enormous strain on the chain links holding him to the wall of the carriage.

  Whoosh! – Again the train entered a tunnel and darkness engulfed them once again. Three heavy thuds and the sound of chains ripping from the walls caused Röark to panic, his face awash with sweat, his palms wet with fear. Panting furiously, he felt he was losing control.

  The grinding of chains, the crash of a chain-link falling to the carriage floor - it was undeniable the cannibal had broken free.

  The carriage shuddered as it traversed through the darkness, heavy whumps shook its foundations as it turned slight corners along the ancient steel railway.

  Röark turned left and right, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He listened for footsteps, for breathing – anything to expose the cannibal’s movements.

  The tunnel seemed to last forever, the darkness choking him, drawing the breath from his lungs. Röark slid backwards, his chains screeching on the floor as he did so, dragging and clunking as he shifted his feet. Breathing heavily, he listened intently, trying to ignore the wailing cries from the children and the distressed bleating of the lamb.

  Was the cannibal free from his chains?

  The next thought that crossed his mind was escape. It seemed the cannibal had freed himself with strength, so he would be able to do the same. Tugging furiously on his chains, he felt each yank crippling the foundations of the carriage wall with a menacing crunch.

  He pushed his back against the wall of the carriage, his sweat-soaked clothing sticking to his body, his chest burning. Overwhelming fatigue crippled his movements once again, his eyes heavy. Light-headed and nauseous, he rocked sideways, eventually vomiting all over his leg. A rush of sweat wept across his face, his head thumping in pain.

  Whoosh! – the tunnel ended and they were bathed with light.

  Directly in front of him perched the cannibal down on one knee, growling and gnashing his callous teeth, the chains previously incarcerating him crumbled on the floor behind him.

  ---

  The fleeing group of thieves had yet to take the time to consider where they had escaped to. Diving into the abyss beyond the tiny opening Cervis had presented them inside the clock tower, they all huddled in the space below. Above them, the rumble of scattered footsteps, yells, grunts and frustrated wails. The ground was cold beneath them. Inky darkness prevented vision. Gathered together, the bandits and the injured man remained silent, their eyes locked on the pile of disused cogs above them that Rian had used to conceal their entry. Just as he had done so, the door to the clock tower gave way with a monstrous crash.

  Whoever was outside, was now inside.

  Urgent scurries of footsteps suggested the rabble were searching the room in which they’d been hiding. Disgruntled voices called Cervis’ name, but quieter now, distant, muffled by the sturdy stone floor that separated them.

  Cervis squeezed his eyes closed, listening to the chants above, teeth gritted. Beside him, Sully hugged Rian tightly. They sat quietly, slaves to the activity above, pessimistically aware before long the mob would almost certainly discover the secret passage. Quivering, Cervis squeezed the pendant with all his force, in a bid to break it to make all the animosity disappear.

  “I have had enough. I’m going to end this!”

  “Stop!” Phillipe urged, his hand landing on Cervis’, his touch forcing Cervis to jump in shock.

  Cervis hurled the pendant as hard as he could. A moment’s silence took hold, before a glassy crack indicated it landed somewhere in the distance.

  “You fool!” Phillipe wailed. Rian pressed a hand over his mouth as a stern reminder.

  “We need to move forward, try to find passage out of here,” Rian spoke, his voice calm and stable. Urging Sully to release her constricted grasp on him, he rose to his feet, keeping his balance by gripping the indents in the walls. Behind him, leaning against the cold stone, Cervis huddled into a ball, tears over his cheeks smeared with dirt.

  The footsteps above them suddenly stopped, the callous shouting with it. Complete silence.

  Rian peered up, an expression of horror across his face, “could it be they found us?”

  “Rian,” Sully cooed, her voice desperate, arms outstretched, “what do we do?”

  “We must make haste,” he insisted, “this way.”

  A match strike rumbled, and a welcome flame appeared. Its surprisingly generous glow bathed the room in a flickering orange radiance. Holding the tiny match high, Rian scoured the room for something to use as a torch.

  Each of their expressions twisted in amazement, their eyes grew wide. They scanned the room in a circular motion, jaws agape.

  “What is this place?” Sully asked, slowly rising to her feet with the assistance of the old stone wall. She scrunched her nose up, and glanced at her hand, full of dirt. Her hand print remained on the wall, flowing dust piles forming at her feet.

  “It looks to be a disused tavern basement,” Rian realised, his eyes drifting towards the corner where a stack of kegs lined the wall, and beside him a dilapidated stone pillar, two overturned tables shrouded in dust. At his feet, various sheets of paper flapped about.

  “I found the entrance last winter, when I was helping Michaela hide her barley from the wild dogs, “Cervis muttered, still huddled against the wall, peering around, “I have never been down here. I never….” His words trailed off, appearing ashamed.

  Nodding slightly, Rian shifted his stern expression from Cervis to the northern edge of the room, in the greater distance barely visible from his tiny flame. A crinkled hay bed carpeted the corner, riddled with spider webs. A peculiar statue rested beside the hay, completely covered in webbing. The flickering fire brought the small effigy to life. About knee high, it appeared to be a kind of flying creature, claws cared, wings drawn, not so different to the gargoyles and goblins used in gothic architecture around Transylvania. But this beast’s face was lowered. Strands of hair, forged and chiselled with intricate detail, draped from its misshapen head. Whomever had carved it, had been careful with detail, with plenty of time to do it.

  Along the wall to the east was an oaken table, decrepit and rotting. Beside it an encrusted glass bottle, filled to the brim with dirt and dust. Fragments of glass lay at the table feet, remanets of a drinking glass.

  “Someone has been down here,” Rian said, eyes locked on the ominous statue.

  “Look at the statue,” Sully gasped, scuttling forward to grasp Rian’s arm, “perhaps we can sell it in town. It must be worth a fortune!”

  But something else had caught Rian’s attention.

  “Phillipe,” Rian called without turning, “come look at this.”

  Climbing over a fallen stool and waving away cobwebs, Rian pressed his hand against the wall. Thousands of scrapings and markings lay embedded before his eyes. Stories played out in etchings, littered across the stone. Piles of grey chipping lay at his feet, “Phillipe, you must come here, you must see this- ”

  Phillipe was already there, perching his
hand on Rian’s shoulder as a way of acknowledging it. Gazing upon the myriad of etchings in awe, Phillipe rolled his eyes upward, then sideways, taking in the obscure images. Their detail was magnificent, seemingly scribed along a sort of timeline. Towards the back of the room near the hay bed, a huge circular symbol was carved delicately into the ancient rock. Seven small circles filled the centre of the carving, along with six triangles.

  “I have seen this before,” Phillipe said, his hand pressed against one of the smaller triangles. He leaned closer and blew away built up dust. “I know what this symbol is. I read of it in the scrolls of Ghourds.”

  “What is its purpose?” Rian asked, now beside Phillipe.

  Phillipe responded without any hesitation. “whomever was down here, was trying to keep something out.”

  “Here,” Rian darted a finger, lowering to his knees, “some writing. It’s Latin.”

  Oh daemonium, requiem animae tuae

  inquietum umbram tuam

  transeat ex hox mundo

  “What does it say?” Sully whispered in Rian’s ear, once again gripping his arm.

  “Demon, I forbid thy passage,” Phillipe translated gradually, running his brittle finger along the scribe in the rock, “black thy soul, restless thy shadow, release my sister and depart this world.”

  CHAPTER 10.

  Excerpt (5) – Dr. Hyclid Van Wëegan’s transcripts, dated 1 October 1349;

  Mountcambria has indeed fallen. Prophecies described the streets overpowered with the dead; rats inundating the empty buildings, ghosts haunting the barracks and spirits roaming the fields. The tales are true. Not two steps into the city walls I heard a man singing a grim melody to his daughter, who lay cradled in his arms. She had been dead for what seemed like weeks, her tiny body stiff and green, her eye sockets bare.

  “Bring her back,” he begged me, “bring her back ‘o wonderful healer.”

  Somehow, word had reached this feeble, sick man I was coming. He knew who I was. And now, they call me the saviour. The blessed one. The travelling healer. The boil doctor.