The Scars of Saints

by Unknown

Swimming over to the howling man, Röark grabbed a hold of his chain, and tugged at it with all his might. He tried again, and again. The water rose higher, reaching the man’s chin, the carriage inches from total submersion. Once again Röark yanked the frail old man’s chain, gulping mouthfuls of stagnate swampy water.

  “Please help,” the man wailed, flailing about, inadvertently kicking Röark in the face. His nose crushed, spewing blood into the water.

  “You must stop moving!” Röark urged him, ignoring the blistering pain in his face, clutching the old man’s chain again.

  With a vacuous gloop, the water filled the entire carriage, the last of the oxygen sucked away. Both Röark and the old man were forced underwater. The murky green abyss burned Röark’s eyes, his vision poor partially due to the blood from his nose. The heavy mass of the boggy water made it all but impossible for Röark to jerk on the chain, and he felt his chance of rescuing the fraught old man disappear.

  Quickly losing air, he had little time. He abandoned his attempt to help the man, letting go of his chain. Forcing his body downwards, Röark swam towards a small crack in the side of the submerged carriage, managing to glide his way through the hole before gracelessly paddling upwards, towards the surface. When he broke the surface, he burst out in a huge cry of relief, sucking in the putrid air of the surrounding swamp.

  ---

  Waking suddenly, Cervis yelped in distress, gripped in a dream. He’d been trapped in sand, sinking slowly, while Mihaela was laughing and singing, paying no attention to his pleas. She and Röark danced freely, hand in hand, ignoring his desperate cries for help. Collarbone was off to the side, barking jovially.

  Hands shaking, he took a few deeps breaths. Somehow he had drifted off to sleep. Starving, he reached out to rustle through his pack, the tiny block of cheese in his bag would suffice. Across the other side of the room the wounded man rested in a pile of hay, his breathing slow but consistent. To keep him comfortable, Rian had set up a small lamp which flickered, donning the old abandoned basement in a soothing glow. Cervis realised Phillipe and Rian had also both drifted to sleep, their backs against the old stone base of the dilapidated old bar.

  Fossicking around for his backpack, Cervis grumbled. A sickening cold brace gripped his stomach.

  The bag was missing!

  In a panic, his head darted sternly, searching the area. He rose quickly, dashing over to the entry recess above him, before glancing around. He checked under the hay bales in case Phillipe had hidden it for safety.

  There was no sign of it. He rushed to wake Phillipe, a wave of dread taking hold. His legs felt limp.

  That’s when he realised Sully was missing.

  “No!” he fell to his knees, “oh no!”

  “Cervis?” called Phillipe’s voice, waking from the ruckus, “why are you shouting?”

  “Sully is gone! She has taken the pendant!”

  Waking from his slumber, Rian rolled over, his woolly shawl dropping beside him.

  “What are you saying?”

  “She isn’t here, and my pack is missing. The pendant was in the pack.”

  Phillipe jerked up, immediately searching the area.

  “She can’t be far,” Rian assessed, a concerned look in his eye, “is the entrance still concealed?”

  Turning back, Cervis shook his head. “No.”

  “Sully,” Rian whispered softly to himself, his tone riddled with unease.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Phillipe grumbled, glaring at Rian, “the majority of scouts will depart Sibiu within days. If that is the case, we may never meet them. We need their help to find the Censu so we can’t afford to waste any more time.”

  “I know that!” Rian yelled, frustrated. His face grew red, flustered, his general sense of calm diminished.

  “Where could she have gone?” Cervis asked.

  Rian didn’t respond. He just stared into the flickering lamp, the tiny flame falling ill to the lack of oxygen.

  “Can you feel anything? Any visions?” Rian asked Phillipe, turning to him desperately.

  “No,” Phillipe replied sheepishly.

  “Then she is okay,” he said, his expression confronting. His cheekbones flared as he clenched his teeth. He darted towards the newly exposed recess in the ceiling, dust circling the room.

  “Rian,” Phillipe called to him, “I am not worried about Sully, it’s the pendant I am worried about. Where has she taken it?”

  “I will find her, I promise,” he replied, gazing up at the exit, “I won’t be long. She can’t be far.”

  Sifting aside what little cover was left, Rian gripped the top of the ledge, and with Cervis’ assistance down below, heaved himself up and back into the confinements of the clock tower. Fragments of the old wooden door stuck to his palms, particles scattered across the stone floor. A gust of wind tickled his face, entering via the damaged door that bore three gaping holes indiscriminately carved by way of axe. Outside, it seemed eerily quiet. A lone howl in the distance, and the flutter of a bat broke the silence.

  Treading carefully, Rian made his way outside. The warm night air was welcoming, the humbling purr of cicadas offering a false sense of calm. His long brown hair fell free from its confinements and he tackled it quickly, locking it away in a bun with a brittle piece of cloth. Taking a deep breath, he turned both ways, scanning the area. The rows of pines that hid the path to the clock tower were now dead, the needles from the branches piled heavily across the dirt. The gas lamps towards the south were smashed, the tiny cottages to the side covered in a film of rusted, bronze decomposition. He moved swiftly to his left, careful to avoid the skeletal bushes. His footsteps crunched on the brittle twigs and tree branches littering the roads, the result of the once beautiful alignment of willows that donned the streets. Now, only famished timber remains flanked the trail, their deathly bony branches reaching out desperately.

  Rian followed the dirt road that led behind the tower towards the square, passing house by house, each with their brown oak doors marked in white chalk. In serrated, uncivilized notations, the inscriptions were all identical;

  AO|79|005|XXX

  The house that sat prominently on a small mound at the end of the path caught Rian’s attention. The window near the front door housed a tiny beeswax candle aglow with diminishing force. Stepping through the garden, across decaying roses and perished capsaicine bushes, he approached the front of the building, its sagging straw roof on the verge of collapsing. With his body pressed against the door, he wiped his finger across the chalk, smudging it into a hazy blur across the fragile old wooden door.

  “Aevum salvabit nos,” he whispered to himself, squeezing his eyes closed.

  Turning to continue his pace, he took a moment to gaze inside through the tiny box window, the candle inside still flickering. The room would have been empty lest for rows and rows of dusty unlabelled wine bottles decorating the walls. Rain drops trickled from the sky, as dark ominous clouds rumbled atop from the nearby mountains. The drops were refreshing, soothing and pleasant. They splattered on the warm brick walls of the house, with small puddles quickly forming in the dirt beneath Rian’s feet.

  The moon was high in the sky, its rays intermittently terminated by the gathering clouds, a stone grey beam barely lighting up Rian’s path. Gripping the set of matches in his pocket, he pondered a moment. He dare not light a torch, he knew not what remained in Orlat. And so his destination became the old church up the hill. He formed solace that once Sully had abandoned them and fled the clock tower, she would have tried to find András before she left town.

  A short, monstrous squeal rung out to his left, and Rian stumbled back, hand gripped on his dagger. He recognised his surrounds, it was the crossroad that connected the back alley to the mill. To his left were rolling fields, darkened and unrecognisable due to the falling rain. Through a nearby window in a small house on the corner, he noticed the inside of a bedroom. An unimpressive old timber bed perched against the crumbling brick wall
inside, worn ivory-coloured sheets scattered across. He spotted what appeared to be a young lady, sprawled across the bed, her left arm dangling off the side. Her long, blonde locks of hair also draped over the edge of the bedstead, elegant and shiny. She lay motionless.

  And then Rian saw a shadow.

  It sat, hunched atop the woman, appearing as though it was stroking her face. The haunting outline of the figure suggested it was no bigger than a pig, with almost serrated and reptilian skin. Bathed in darkness, Rian felt himself immobilised, staring intently at the shadowy outline. Stringy, jet-black hair draped from its head, virtually reaching the floor. Odd contortions across its back depicted lumps, donned with ragged, blood-red feathers. Appearing to turn its head, the shadowy figure look towards Rian, glazy eyes reflecting the moonlight.

  “Aevum salvabit nos,” Rian recited quietly, gripping his dagger so hard his hand began to seize.

  Rian froze, overcome by the nauseating feeling of his stomach churning. His feet felt like they’d been turned to stone. The icy cold rain trickled down his face.

  “The girl,” a deep voice whispered, passing through a gust of warm wind, “she dies.”

  Rian stumbled backwards, the air pilfered from his lungs. He turned to steal a second gaze into the bedroom, the tiny shadowy creature still atop the motionless woman, still watching him.

  He backed away, eyes locked on the figure. The woman it lay atop remained motionless. When he could retreat no further, he turned to his right, and fled towards the mill. As he ran, clouds of ash and dust perforated the air, mounds of dead foliage stirring up in a frenzy. He took the first road east, running past crumbling buildings; windows smashed, walls stained stagnant brown. Each house he past, the same cryptic markings stained upon the door.

  AO|79|005|XXX

  “She will die,” a whisper cooed in his ear, mixed in the passing mountain wind. Choking and losing his footing, Rian stumbled sideways, colliding with a half-collapsed stone partition. Up ahead through a small alleyway, he spotted the village’s main square. Beyond that, he knew, was an exit down towards the headlands. It was the way Phillipe had brought them.

  In the distance along the foothills of the mountain range, huge flocks of birds evacuated the forest trees, screeching in distress. Thousands and thousands of them, all bailed together into a giant frenzied mass, darting off in sporadic directions once they reached the sky. Into the darkness and rain they disappeared, cawing their thunderous shrieks.

  “No,” Rian gasped, clutching the stone pillar beside him while he rested. His lip trembled, his eyes wide with fear, “they’re already inside.”

  A contemptuous snarl caught Rian off-guard. He spun, finding a pack of wild dogs roaming in the main square. They snarled at each other, their mouths covered in festering white foam. Their barks turned to shrieks, their mannerisms chaotic. They leapt at each other savagely, gnashing at each other’s necks. One dog, much larger than the others, leapt high. Its powerful frame easily knocked over a smaller mutt, and within seconds the dog’s head was severed.

  Rian paused, realising he was unable to pass. He couldn’t outrun a wild dog. He dropped out of sight behind the pillar, and covered his mouth to muffle his panting. He could try to get through unnoticed, but if he was-

  His thoughts were interrupted by faint crying, somewhere to the east. Someone was still here.

  Rainwater dribbling from the pillar’s unstable foundations over his face, he lifted his head to listen. The rising savage melee of wild dogs in the square drowned out any chance he had of hearing beyond the square, their hateful shrieks growing deafening.

  He dove from his hiding place, and ran towards one of the many alleyways. The moon had now become his enemy, its haunting radiance exposing his retreat. One of the dogs caught his movement, immediately racing towards him. Hearing its footprints brusquely splash amongst the muddy puddles along the alleyway, Rian jerked to the south past a single moss covered statuette and retreated towards a field that lay fenced off by an old, dilapidated gate. He jumped it easily, and turned to find the dark shadow of a dog tearing towards him with monstrous pace. Heavy gasps and growls accompanied the angry predator as it bore down on its target, reddened eyes locked on Rian.

  Rian had nowhere to run. He was now in an open field, protected only by a rickety wooden boundary fence. He spotted windmills to the north, and larger, disused cottages to the west.

  Yet he decided to head south, towards the vineyards. It was the direction he, Phillipe, Sully and András had entered the village. If he reached the barn that bordered the vineyard, he could seek shelter inside.

  His legs burned as he ran. His feet sloshed in the moistened grassland, sinking with each step. It was hard to keep stable, and he almost fell twice. Behind him, he could hear the dog getting closer, undeterred by the softened mud.

  In the moonlight, he could make the outline of the end of the field, and the barn beyond. He guessed a mile, maybe two.

  He would never make it.

  Panic gripped him, yet he continued to run. Sidewards rain pricked his face and blurred his vision, and he felt his dagger fall from its sheath. It landed in mud, with one, undignified plop.

  “No!” he yelped, as he reached the boundary fence. He clutched the top beam and hurdled himself over and dropped behind it, ready for the dog to pounce.

  But it never did.

  Gasping for air with wretched pants, he clutched his chest and huddled in the shadow. His backside quickly sunk into the mud, his face pressed against the rain-soaked wood seeking nurture.

  Waiting for what seemed an eternity, he rose to his feet, his clothes covered in mud. Gazing out across the field, there was no sign of the dog. The moonlight had disappeared, strangled by an enormous menacing cloud. He waited for its return, so he could search out his dagger.

  That’s when he heard the crying again.

  It was close, close enough for him to recognise pitiful sobs. Peering in the direction of the sobbing, he lowered himself behind the fence, and followed its perimeter to remain out of sight. Avoiding the growing mud pools, he navigated his way past the remainder of the fence, towards the boundary of the vineyard. There, alone on a small log beneath a single mighty oak, sat a woman. Her long dark hair was drenched, her grey dress soaked. In her hand appeared to be a rope.

  How – Rian deliberated, puzzled – how is she still here, whereas everyone else went into the woods…

  The woman spun, and spotted Rian immediately. Rian froze, backing away slowly.

  “That girl,” the woman bumbled, her face fused with a mixture of tears and rainwater, “the one with the red hair, she took my horse.”

  Sully! - Rian thought to himself, ceasing his retreat. He lowered his eyebrows, “she took your horse?”

  “While I was attending to the stable, she took off, across the fields in the south.”

  The woman seemed genuine in her distress, her hands hook, eyes full of sorrow.

  “How long ago?”

  “What evil possesses her,” the crying lady wailed, “wicked crimson hair. She is the damned. The devil born in the windmill!”

  “Quiet!” Rian urged, flashing his palms, “wild dogs roam. It’s not safe!”

  “Aevum will punish her,” the woman assured Rian, not adhering to his warning about the dogs, “Aevum will rid the world of the cursed red haired thief, her strange hair tempts darkness.”

  Rian shook his head, eyes locked on the crying woman.

  “No, it won’t,” he replied, “it will do no such thing. Do not succumb to Aevum.”

  “Are you…a follower?” the woman muttered, faintly, rising to her feet. The moon broke through the clouds, and the holistic rays lit her face up. Brutal scars grew visible across her nose and cheek.

  “Don’t come near me,” Rian demanded, pointing at her, “you keep your distance. Tell me if there are any more horses, and how long ago the girl with the red hair was here.”

  Rian was careful not to use her name.

&nbs
p; “There are horses in the barn,” the woman cooed, her expression emotionless, “they’re my fathers. I dressed them all with my blue cotton truss.”

  A crack of thunder caused the crying woman to scream, and she fell to her knees, hands clasped across her ears. A lone howl nearby caught Rian’s attention, he felt his skin go cold, the hairs on his neck upright.

  He had no time to go back for his dagger. Nor did he have time to help this woman. Instead, he raced down towards the barn, its huge red frame easily identifiable. Beneath his feet, the earth was hard, gravel and rock under his stride. Within minutes he reached the mighty doors of the barn, luring them open with ease.

  Just as the woman had said, inside was a lone horse, a blue cloth tied around its neck.

  Frightened by the rain and thunder, the timid horse fought off Rian’s advances. He made an effort to calm the mare, gently stroking her nose, humming softly. Eventually climbing atop, he motioned for the colt to run, jamming his foot into her belly, grasped his hand around her neck. Jolting in fright, the horse circled the barn, before taking flight out the door and into the darkness.

  Rian managed once last glance up the hill towards Orlat. There he could see the outline of the great oak, and the woman’s body swinging loosely from one of its branches, the rope tied around her neck.

  CHAPTER 12.

  Sully was fed up. Mixing doujinshi seeds with skullcap and mullen, she had laced the boiled water so Rian, Phillipe and Cervis would sleep. As soon as they passed out, she had deserted the underground sanctuary, stealing a horse that lingered alone at the edge of town. She’d also taken Cervis’ backpack with her. There was food in it to sustain her till she reached the next town. She knew she could sell the pendant – the cursed pendant that had caused all her anguish.

  She missed the old days - days when she and Rian were free, passing through towns, robbing the rich. Without boundaries, they would purge priceless artefacts from museums, tombs, castles and villas. They became practically famous; signs promoting their arrest littered streets, bards revelled of their tales, ballads were sung in their testimony.