by Unknown
The flame-haired thief - they would report - the scarlet bandit has struck again!
But then came the day Rian learnt his father had granted undying dedication to the rising faith of Aevum. Joining its ranks as a practicing herald, Rian soon learned his father had succumbed to the governing faith, and planned to travel city to city to spread their teachings. Seeking answers, Rian had left Sully in the town of Brasov, riding far south to Michalovce. He was gone for almost a year. Sully remained in Brasov, working the crime-ridden streets of the steel mill district as a beggar. She would cover her hair with a bandage, hiding her locks of red hair. She grew more anxious as the days went by, sleeping rough under the Hëttrier Bridge, waiting for Rian’s return.
When he finally did return, it was immediately apparent to Sully that he was a markedly different person. Brooding, distant and sour, he had lost his zest, instead replaced with rage for Aevum. Sully pressed for answers;to what had happened inMichalovce, and where he’d been all this time. She never received an answer, only that Rian’s father was now dead.
From that day forward, all Rian’s attention was now on exposing Aevum as a fraud to avenge his father. Rian insisted Aevum was a ruse, controlled by three majority figures high in its ranks. In his sleep, he would often mutter about the rebirth of the demon and the sealing in the woods. He’d sweat profusely, rock back and forward and mutter about infecting townsfolk with plague and finding the members of the cercle de lumière.
No longer was Rian interested in their past life. No more passion for robbing graves, or traders passing through the woods. He insisted that once he had exposed Aevum, he would go back to being himself. But Sully never believed it. She didn’t believe anything anymore.
She never believed the stories about the sick, evil people, urging innocent simple village folk to follow the faith of Aevum, nor how they would be brainwashed, tricked and harassed into dedicating their lives to the governing faith.
It all made no sense to Sully. There was seemingly nothing unusual about Aevum.
Then the situation grew worse. A chance meeting in a gypsy camp south of Madras found Sully spend the night with a man called András. He was charming, suave and confident. Smitten with him, she opened her heart, telling him everything. And as fate had it, András was also hunting down the secrets of Aevum, along with his companion, Phillipe. Coming together in the dead of night outside the gypsy camp, Rian and Sully formed an alliance with András and Phillipe, and they departed towards Bucharest.
It soon became apparent that Sully felt she was a burden. She didn’t share the same distrust and hate towards Aevum that the others did. András paid no attention to her, acting like she almost didn’t exist. The trio began to belittle her, judge her. She had to hide her hair for fear of being recognised, and so her resentment grew. Hiding away, she would often be neglected as the other three went about town. She would ravage what she could, stealing from the locals. And it wasn’t long before she began to loathe Phillipe and András for the influence they had on Rian.
And so, inside the cellar of the clock tower, she had decided once Rian and Phillipe were asleep, she would take the opportunity to leave, take the pendant, and sell it off. The thought of not seeing András or Rian again made her reconsider at one point, but she knew she had to be strong. Their obsession was too great now, their lives consumed. She had to get as far away as possible.
And now, atop the stolen horse, it wasn’t long until Sully could see a village across the horizon.
As the sun rose in the east, the valley was aglow with summer colours. Dissected by a shallow stream bordered with weeping willows, Malancrav appeared as a sleepy village of manor houses and apple orchards, home to generations of farmers and weavers. Its main road was impressively decorated with traditional houses; each expansive and colourful, painted with terracotta-tiled gabled roofs and arched wooden gates wide enough to accommodate horse and carts. Sully admired an ancient fortified church as she passed, emerging into the town’s busy centre square. Dozens of farmers, accompanied by cows, strolled down the street heading towards their farms. Docile locals chatted casually, swapping stories. A charming little pub with an array of flowers lining the windowsill overflowed with early morning patrons, recently brewed beer in hands, laughing and jeering.
Someone in there would buy the pendant.
Sully smiled. All she had to do was spout off the same story about its origin that Rian and Phillipe were adamant was true - it used to belong to Hyclid Von Wëegan, the demon witch-doctor who discovered Asag Ovrai.
Upbeat, she bundled her ratted hair into a bob and covered it up with a cotton sheet, before ungracefully dismounting the horse, temporarily losing her footing. Grasping Cervis’s grass-knit backpack tightly, she approached the pub with an enthusiastic smile. Striding with confidence, she basked in the early morning rays of the rising sun, trying not to bring attention to herself. Always look like a local – that was her creed. Not an easy task in small villages.
“Not from around here?” chimed one man inquisitively, sipping a glass of beer as Sully passed. He admired her with an overcompensating grin, offering rows of rotting brown teeth.
“Just passing through,” Sully replied, backed up by a gentle wave, a gesture of goodwill.
“Be careful then young outsider, some harpies have been spotted south of the village, near the Polüvile woods.”
Sully missed a step, frowning at the man “Harpies?”
“That’s right. It be said this pub here is full of hunters from all over the lands, ready to collect bounties. A harpy’s head is said to fetch thousands. So they drink to their riches.”
Smiling dismissively, Sully nodded and made her way inside. Careful not to nudge anybody, Sully clambered her way through the heaving pub, reaching the sprawling wooden bar crusted with spilled beer. Taking a deep breath, she took a moment to look around. The dark timber walls were mounted with animal heads, hundreds of them; water buffalo, bears, foxes, a lynx, and a giant alpine jackal. Sully ogled at them, awestruck.
The smell in the pub was intense – a combination of sweat, body odour and stale yeast ambushed her nostrils.
Nearby, two burly men in straw hats were engaged in loud intoxicated chatter. Sully instinctively found herself eavesdropping. She knew there was no better way to gauge a man’s vulnerability than when he were drunk.
“I’d like to see any man try,” dared one of them, his voice deep and commanding, “no man would come out alive. I’d like to see a harpy’s head upon this wall.”
“No hunter worth his weight would say no,” the other man said, seemingly not as liquored up, “will you at least try, for a generous fee?”
“No sir, I will not,” the drunken man replied, “I have heard the tales. Many a man has heard the tales. Full grown men grow paralysed, their insides turn to stone.” the man’s voice rang out prematurely, his face twisted in an expression of horror while he shook his head.
“You’re a hunter,” the smaller man reminded him, “that means you hunt. You’ve been known to hunt a-“
“Don’t tell me what I am,” snapped the intoxicated man, swaying, his voice filled with wounded pride, “I won’t stand here and listen to some outsider tell me what I am. If you want a harpy, go fucking get one!”
Leaning across the bar in an attempt to hear clearly, Sully’s thoughts were interrupted.
“What ya want?” a female barkeep asked, a stained white cloth over her right shoulder. She seemed agitated by Sully, “you don’t look like a hunter, you a hunter?”
“Me? No,” Sully replied, in an attempt to conclude any prospect of a conversation to continue eavesdropping.
“Well, what’s your business here then?” she queried intrusively, her voice sharp.
“I’m just passing by,” Sully assured her.
“Just passing by?” she asked with confusion, “passing by what?”
“I’m sorry, could I get a lager?” Sully asked her, with hope she’d occupy her with a task.<
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“No, you can’t,” she answered, leaning forward, “you see girl, this is a hunter’s pub. Everyone here is a hunter. So when an untrustworthy ratty little girl comes in, I ask questions.”
“I am a hunter,” Sully lied, her eyes wide and glassy, “I am. Now may I have a lager?”
“What do you hunt?” the scowling barkeep probed.
Growing uncomfortable, Sully retreated from the bar with an ill-aggressive flippant wave. The surly barkeep stared intently at her as she slid into the crowd, trying to escape view. She took a deep breath, reaching hold of the backpack to ensure its safety.
Suddenly, she felt a cold hand grab her shoulder and squeeze tightly. In fright, she spun to find a giant of a man, clothes ripped and torn, a messy beard and beady green eyes amongst a tough, wrinkled face. In his left hand he held a huge barbarian axe.
“What ‘ave we got ‘ere then?” he bellowed, in a rugged Irish accent.
“I’m just passing through,” Sully assured him, suddenly missing Rian by her side.
“You ‘ere hunting the ‘arpies?” the Irish man flagged, “or you ‘ere to join ‘em?” He chortled at his quip.
“Harpies?” Sully asked unsure, “I don’t know what they are.”
“You what?” the man roared, his grip on Sully’s shoulder tightening.
“How can a hunter not know what a harpy is!?” another man called from nearby, having heard the conversation, “spawn of the devil they are, is what my pa says.”
“What kind ‘o hunter are you?” the huge man questioned, bringing his face closer to Sully. The man’s breath was riddled with beer and raw meat.
“I’m just passing through,” Sully whimpered, feeling herself lose control of the situation, her mind racing, “I’m not really a hunter, I just-“
“You’re not a hunter?” the axe wielding man trumpeted, “then perhaps you’re a whore? We need some lovin’ before we head out into ‘ta woods.”
Tearing her shoulder from the man’s grip, she glared at him.
“I’m here to sell something.”
“Yes you fuckin’ are, now come ‘ere and hold it against me,” the Irish bigot curdled, aggressively grabbing her breast. Another man, smaller in stature but with a beard so large his face was hidden, latched his hand onto Sully’s back. Squealing, Sully turned to slap him, but the bearded man caught her hand mid-air, gripping it so tight her hand went blue.
“You don’t strike a man who bears the arms of Treéthles,” he leered, pointing to a sewn cotton badge on his collar. He wrapped his arm around her waist and effortlessly dragged her towards the back of the heaving pub. Kicking and screaming, Sully scratched at his face, before biting into his forearm. He growled in contempt, and hit her across the face. Covering her mouth with his giant, plump hand, the bearded hunter and his Irish companion heaved Sully out the back of the pub, into a little courtyard. Tears welled in her eyes as they pulled her hair, shoving her against a small stone wall. The bearded man ripped the ruck-sack from her back and threw it towards the back corner of the courtyard. It caught hold of a branch of a plum tree, hanging precariously.
“No!” she screamed, to the crowd of hunters inside the pub. Not one of them reacted. They went about their drinking, laughing and cheering, ignoring her pleas.
“Look at ya pretty red hair,” the Irish hunter sneered. He forced her firm against the wall, while the other proceeded to get undressed. Licking his lips, the bearded man gripped her hips and began to mount her while the Irish man snickered. He licked her face, the repugnant odour of his breath overbearing.
“Stop!” she wailed, kicking backwards. Her foot connected with the bearded man’s shin, and he wailed in protest.
“Stop ya fuckin’ moving,” he insisted, bashing the back of her head with his open palm. Her face collided with the wall, spraying blood from her nose. She dropped to her knees, and rolled to the side beneath the Irish man’s legs. She rose to her feet with the assistance of a timber chair, and ran back inside, blinded by tears. She pushed through the crowd, oblivious to their annoyed yelps. The burly drunken hunters gave chase, still half dressed.
Outside she turned left, past a shattered picket fence. She crept into the abyss of some overgrown hedges, their barbed twigs aggressively grazing her skin. Her heart was racing, her hair matted and tangled. She sobbed into her hands, doing her best to remain quiet.
“Rian,” she sobbed, hands covered in blood and tears, “I’m sorry. I’m…so very sorry.”
She brushed her knees softly, flicking away dirt and debris. She wiped her face, and peered out carefully, searching for her attackers. Retreating backwards, she soon popped out of the hedge, into a ragged, unkempt garden surrounding a tiny timber cottage.
The two front windows were dark, smeared in dirt. Single tattered curtains hung from both windows. The front door was covered in spider webs, their glossy reflection visible in the sunlight.
Sully crept closer, keeping to the ground, her knees ready to give.
When she was close to the cottage she heard the sound of a baby, crying heartily. Deep, vigorous cries, over and over.
Sully bit her lip. Crying babies usually equated to tired mothers, distracted by tending to their needs.
Easy targets.
These kind of people normally had little to take – old dusty jewellery, perhaps some artwork, or pottery. She would need supplies to get to the next town, so she decided she had to take the opportunity. There would almost certainly be food inside.
The baby’s ravaged cries were deafening even from the outside of the cottage walls, a sickening, squawking wail, desperate in its manner. Placing a hand on the wall of the cottage, Sully rose to her tippy-toes to peer into the window.
Inside was bare, just a stool on its side, and a pile of debris near the doorway. In the southern corner, a lady sat motionless in an old rocking chair. Her arms were clasped around an infant, whose hands flailed about as it screamed. The women didn’t react. Pressing her face closer to the window, Sully caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. Gaunt, black and skeletal, it was as though her life had been drained right out of her, eye sockets bare, huge scabs on her face eaten through by maggots. An unsightly boil was prominent on her neck, black and green, excreting thick white ooze.
Then Sully’s mood was instantly lifted. Around the woman’s neck was a golden necklace.
Sully leered, pleased with herself. She jerked the window open, and climbed through, fumbling awkwardly. An intense smell of putrid, rancid meat engulfed her and she spluttered, before covering her nose and mouth with her bloodied hand. Rodents skittled about her feet, rushing over her sandals to hide. Larger rats scavenged on the corpse’s feet, ignoring Sully’s intrusion.
Sully paused a moment, her eyes locked on the pale corpse in the corner. The baby continued to fiercely cry, a howling cackle. The corpse’s bony hands were clasped tight on the infant. Sully approached quietly, reaching out both hands to swipe the necklace from the dead woman’s neck. She clasped her left hand around the necklace, briefly touching the corpse’s brittle cold skin. She tugged with force, snapping it from the corpse’s neck. In reaction, the decomposing body dropped forwards. Reaching out her hand to stop the body falling, Sully nudged the dead woman’s head and the body slumped backwards, into her initial position. A large black beetle scampered from her eye socket and fell into the baby’s lap. An ominous thick, black goo dribbled from the dead woman’s mouth.
Sully spluttered and covered her mouth. She turned to leave, but a light outside the doorway in the room next door caught her eye. The tiny cottage only had two rooms, the other room most certainly being the bedroom. Nodding to herself, she agreed that she had come this far – it would be worth making sure there was no other jewellery in the residence.
She strode past the dead woman, necklace clasped in her hand. Shoving it into the rucksack, she entered the next room. Avoiding legions of holes in the rotting timber floor, she held her hand firmly against her nose. She could still
smell it – a powerful stench of decomposition.
The baby’s cries echoed from behind her, as she gazed about. A single candle flickered on a small wooden stool. A small single bed covered in blood and black liquid was off to one side, and a wooden bookcase next to it. And in the far corner, a range of other items covered with a large, white sheet.
Approaching the middle of the room, she glanced down at the rancid bed, her nose scrunched up, eyes watering. Flies and cockroaches puttered about in the dark liquid, straining to carry their bodies through the sickly sludge. When she reached the items covered with the sheet, she reached out and tugged it away, immediately stumbling backwards upon her discovery.
Six dead bodies, all women, all huddled together. They were missing their eyes, their clothes tattered. Each was in a worse state of decomposition than the next, their skin black and blue. The woman on the far right, closest to Sully, looked almost alive. Her hair was still clean, her face still with little colour.
“Who are you?” a voice queried, behind Sully.
Sully jumped in fright, and turned to find a woman dressed in black.
CHAPTER 13.
Excerpt (6) - Van Wëegan’s transcripts, dated 12 January 1350;
I don’t know whether I can continue this endeavour. I question the merit, I argue the reasoning, and now everything seems absurdly frivolous. What indication did I have that she was waiting for me? What is it all for, if she is not here? What is the point, if she is gone?
I have been engulfed in debilitating distress since my discovery. My body aches, my mind grows dark. I wonder, did she desert me? Was she forced to flee to escape the madness? I may never know the answer. My memory is vague, but I recall upon reaching Cassandra’s cottage the throes of distress had overcome the streets of London. Pandemonium had set into the hearts of the people, and violence had prevailed. Pestilence has torn down the very civilisation of the city once almighty and great. There was no indication social structure had even existed.
