The Dark Stone Page 20

  At the same time he reached his shuddering climax. For a few moments after he’d emptied himself he drank deeply of her blood. Then, it was all over.

  When euphoria began to ebb and he'd regained some composure, he withdrew from her and stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her body, pale and dead. Guilt manifested as nausea which overcame him and he dropped to all fours. She was innocent. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he could look no more he got up and replaced his robe, threw two coins onto the blood soaked mattress and left.

  41

  It was the middle of the day and someone was banging on the door. Confusion. Confusion and pain were all he felt. Light bore through his closed eyelids and into the recesses of his brain. Sam pulled the blanket tight around his head, unable to answer.

  At sundown he woke from his disturbed sleep none the worse for the interruption. Hammering, from outside in the yard let him know James was still working. Sam left his room and ventured down to see him, carrying the pouch of coins in his pocket.

  James looked up when Sam came out under the lean-to. “Ah there you are. I was starting to get worried when I couldn’t wake you up today. Sleep well then I take it?”

  “Sorry,” said Sam. There was a long pause before anything else was said but he didn’t elaborate or give reason for his being bed-bound for the whole day. “How much?” he asked. He wanted to be out hunting, not making small talk and paying his landlord.

  As James stood up from where he’d been bent over, hammering planks into an iron band, Sam eyed him as a predator would, calculating and cold. As he counted the rent from his purse, his eyes did not leave the man in front of him.

  “Well,” said James after the money had exchanged hands. “I’ve lost the light now, so I’m about finished here. Fancy a drink to celebrate?”

  Sam faltered, the urge to hunt was strong but to his own surprise, he found himself nodding in acceptance of the offer. His urges would have to wait a while. Besides, there was somewhere he wanted to see. “The Coach and Horses is near here isn’t it?” he asked. “Is it reopened do you know?”

  “Yes, but…” James started.

  “Good. I’d like to see if it’s changed.”

  “But…” James didn’t get chance to finish what he was about to say as Sam was already pushing his way out of the courtyard and into the alley. James shrugged, left his tools where they were and followed.

  It felt as though his blood was itching, standing outside the tavern and aware of the life contained inside. For a moment they paused on the pavement. The door opened. Noise and light spilled out onto the street before someone staggered through, got five paces and dropped to his knees, vomiting. James looked nervously at Sam. “I think we should go somewhere else,” he said.

  Sam closed his eyes for a moment and ignored him. It was a long shot but he hoped to find Joshua inside; maybe not still living there but drinking and in good health. He thought about the time they’d stayed and made themselves at home, drinking good beer and brandy. An image came into his mind of the former landlord, rotting on his bed while they ransacked his belongings. No, he had that wrong. That had been a different tavern. Memories of the time he and Joshua had spent alone in the city were becoming muddled in his head. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Inside was a proper hive of villainy and scum. Long benches filled the space below the low ceiling, dimly lit by candlelight. All along them the drinkers laughed, shouted, argued, fought and gambled. Of all the vices being indulged below its roof, gambling was at the better end of the spectrum. Men wore their weapons openly and the place reeked of trouble.

  They found themselves somewhere to sit, opposite each other at the end of one of the long benches and tried to attract the attention of someone to serve them. A huge and portly chap with large grey beard looked at the pair disdainfully when Sam squeezed in next to him and wasn’t too careful about where his elbows were pointing. After the third time of being poked in the ribs, and a little irritable at not yet having a drink in his hand, Sam peered at the man from under his cowl, looking him directly in the eye. The man drew in a breath, his cheeks slightly flushed and was about to bellow something when Sam snarled and showed a glimpse of what lay within; just for a moment.

  All colour disappeared from his face and whatever he was about to say went unspoken. Instead, the big man rose from his seat and quickly made his way to the front door without a word to anyone.

  “Oi!” Someone shouted from the next bench. “Where’re you going.” All eyes turned to the man about to leave, who raised a hand to his mouth as if to try and keep the contents of his stomach in place before racing outside. A breath of cold air filled the room when he went through the door and a raucous laugh went up from the drinkers.

  Meanwhile, Sam was staring at the man who’d shouted, who was already back in his seat. His head was thrown back as a laugh boomed out of him, his drooping moustache full of foam. It was a face he’d never be able to forget, forever burned into his mind’s eye and the stuff of nightmares. His heart skipped a beat as he remembered the last time he’d seen it. The man on the other side of the room was the same one who’d dragged Sam from the catacombs beneath the monastery all that time ago. He was one of those responsible for the sacking there and the slaughter of his brethren.

  Breathing heavily, it took all his effort to maintain a calm exterior. The creature inside him was like a caged animal, throwing itself at the bars of his resolve. His hands gripped the edge of the table and the wood groaned and began to split. Nails gouged into the table-top as he stared at the man drinking and laughing.

  The man stopped laughing when he noticed the young monk staring at him. He nudged his companion sitting next to him and they both looked over, their faces gone serious. “Aye aye.” He said and a tense silence fell over the room as he rose to his feet to show his full height. “Got a problem?”

  “No problem.” James’ voice sounded thin and weak and had a tremble to it. Sam stayed where he was, breathing heavily as primal rage pulsed within him; a throb which filled all of his senses. A red mist was descending. James placed a hand on his arm and found it cold and hard, like an iron rod. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.” Before waiting for an answer he rose from his seat, expecting Sam to follow, but he didn’t.

  Two men had moved to block the exit but their swords still hung from their belts as if they were expecting an easy fight. Sam remained seated, holding the eye of his foe, struggling to keep his calm exterior intact and resisting the urge to start tearing off limbs.

  Revenge was laid out before him on a platter, his for the taking. There may as well have been a red carpet to welcome its arrival. That thought alone kept him in his seat, waiting. The moustachioed man was shouting something. Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth but Sam heard only a muffled throbbing in his ears. It was the calm before the storm which was building all around him.

  The man stopped shouting and took a step forward, putting a hand to the hilt of his sword. Sam saw it all in slow motion, time slowed around him and he watched the sword take a steady journey out of its sheath. When it was halfway, just enough steel showing to reflect the light from the fire, Sam flung open the doors of his mind and let the beast come forth, giving all his self-control over to primitive urges.

  An explosion of meat splattered against the back wall. That which did not stick slid down the old oak panelling, leaving scarlet streaks like giant slug trails. Pandemonium broke out as the monster walked amongst the patrons, smiting them at will with unparalleled brutality. The publican scrambled for the door behind the counter and dived through, barring it from the inside. Others tried to escape the slaughter by way of the front door and out onto the street. Panicked bodies jammed the doorway as they stampeded, crushing and trampling those who only moments before they’d been sharing jokes with.

  The thing that used to be Sam yanked some back inside by the hair, flinging them back into the melee. One lost his scalp and r
an around screaming in small circles, while spraying anyone nearby with blood from his slick, crimson skull.

  Some drew their weapons, but the demon was too quick and there was no room to use them without causing further damage to their friends. Not that it mattered, it was every man for himself but even with a clear swing of sword or axe, they would not have hit him. In a way, the ones who tried to stab or slash the demon were the lucky ones, he killed them first.

  Others froze through fright and pressed their backs against the wall, trying to make themselves invisible. They were forced to watch the disembowelments which were a prelude to their own fate.

  When the inside of the tavern was painted red and strewn with limbs, all was eerily quiet. Pure animal, Sam dropped to his haunches and fed from an open chest where ribs gaped open, their ends poking into the air, sharp and bloody. He plucked out the heart and its owner, his face thick with blond stubble, watched through dead eyes while Sam bit into it like an apple.

  42

  With his appetite sated and anger subdued, Sam became more himself and straightened to look upon the carnage in which he’d surrounded himself. In a brief moment of panic he looked around for James but he was nowhere to be seen. A cold draught blew in from the door which was jammed open by the bodies piled on the threshold. He flung a couple from the top to take a look those underneath and felt a small relief that James wasn’t one of them. The last time he could remember seeing him was by the door and Sam wondered whether he’d escaped before the slaughter had begun.

  From inside the tavern the street looked empty but as he stepped through the door he saw a sizable crowd had gathered at either end of the street, well away from the doors. A handful of armed men stood in front of the crowd, forming a cordon. At the sight of the hooded figure emerging, a collective gasp went up and a few of those gathered ran. The armed men already had their weapons drawn and turned to face him although they were jittery, unsure of what to do and seemed in no rush to take any action other than to slowly back away. One nervously pressed his tongue through the gap where he was missing a front tooth.

  All wondered what the robed figure was going to do and whether they would be next to die. With a leap and a bound, Sam launched himself up the side of the building opposite, effortlessly using windowsills and timber frames to propel himself upwards. From atop the sloping roof he glanced back down to the gathering on the street, now far below him, who were all staring back at the dark shape he cast against the sky.

  On the rooftops his movement around the city was unrestricted. Buildings were crammed into long terraces, which were so closely packed together that when he reached the end of one row it was an easy leap to the next. Fleet-footed he sped from the scene, nothing more than a dark shadow flying above the cobbled streets and lanes. Smoke swirled as he skimmed past or vaulted chimney pots. Occasional tiles, dislodged by his passing, slid off roofs to crash onto the ground below long after he’d passed by.

  And so it was that he came to be perched on the apex at the end of a terrace like a living gargoyle, peering out over the city three stories below. The wind whipped his robes around him. Clouds scudded over the surface of the moon and if anyone had happened to look up in his direction they would have seen him silhouetted against its luminous face.

  The three cathedral spires beckoned to him like upturned fingers. There he might be able to purge some of his sins, but he doubted it and was fully aware his path had veered far from godliness. But go towards the cathedral he did, driven by curiosity and a desire to go anywhere other than to his room and James.

  He travelled there stealthily across the rooftops, the few people who were out at such an hour unaware of his passing. Eventually he reached a point where he could go no further and from his vantage point he could see the cathedral was little more than a burnt out shell. Arches devoid of glass left the interior open to the elements, soot clinging to the walls around them, blackening them like gravity defying ink. The door fared no better and had been reduced to a few charred timbers which hung limply from twisted hinges, turning green with algae and moss. The roof was almost completely gone, collapsed inwards on itself and the small part left whole had cracks running through it and looked in imminent danger of following. Only the spires and weathered walls remained sound.

  The long boulevard and square were deserted of people and without consideration of the height he dropped, cat-like, down from his perch to land lightly on the ground below. Before even reaching the granite steps where once he’d been prodded awake with a stick, a dull ache began to form behind his eyes. As he moved closer to the doors it only got worse, throbbing throughout his head and he raised his hands to his temples to try and relieve the pain. It didn’t help. Pin-points of light floated in his vision and something inside him squirmed, trying to retreat. As if the cathedral were repelling him, each step forward became an effort, like wading through molasses but with added pain which made him want to cry out.

  Not wanting to admit what he suspected he’d become, he pushed on with gritted teeth. The three steps to the door were the longest of his life and when he reached the stumpy remnants of blackened wood, he clung on as if a great force threatened to throw him backwards.

  Inside the cathedral was, as expected, in ruins. If the purpose of the fire had been to cremate the dead, then whoever set it had done a bad job. Bones littered the floor, mingled with rubble from the ceiling. Not far across the threshold, a tuft of hair poked out from beneath a half burned roof-timber. Yet it wasn’t to those remains that his attention was drawn.

  On the wall behind an altar of white marble - one half of which was smashed to smithereens whilst the other stood virtually unscathed, the clean stone almost shining in the sooty black surrounding it - stood a cross of wood, so tall that it almost reached the ceiling. Apart from some singeing at the ends of the cross-member, it too was untouched by the fire.

  Sam dropped to his knees, unable to tear his gaze away from the cross while every atom of his being screamed at him to flee. The pain in his head was unbearable. A tear of blood trickled down his pale cheek and yet he did not yield. Not until he tried to cross the threshold did his will break and he slithered back down the steps on his belly. At the foot of them he took a large gulp of air as if it were his first. The edge began to lift from his pain and it slowly cleared like fog on a summer morning, leaving him panting and alone.

  He ghosted the streets for a while, choosing to walk on the ground rather than rooftops. Hardly anyone was out, the hour was late and the temperature cold. Besides, he didn’t care who saw him. What could they do? Of the handful of late night souls he did pass, all crossed the road to avoid him as they filled with an anxiety they could not quite place their finger on.

  He did however take a look around to make sure no-one was watching before he pushed open the gate to the cooper’s yard. Under the lean-to was a half barrel, filled with water. A thin crust of ice had started to form on top, leaving just a narrow ring of clear liquid around the edge. After removing his robe and dropping it into a heap, he plunged his hand into the barrel. The ice tilted into the water, breaking into three pieces and reaching through, he scooped up some water and splashed it over his naked body and head. The cold helped wash away some of his melancholia as well as the blood. After he’d cleaned himself he dunked his robe and, submerged to the elbows, kneaded it clean.

  Still naked, he went into the building and up the stairs, having no need of the lamp as James did, and dripping water behind him. He didn't know whether to feel relief or apprehension that there was no candlelight filtering from under James' door. No sound came from the room and Sam chose to leave him undisturbed.

  The bed was damp from his undried body as Sam lay thinking about the night’s events. It wasn't so much the killing which played on his mind; in an odd way he liked relinquishing his control to some dark force and found it liberating. However, he was more afraid what it meant for his soul. He was under no illusions that evil lurked within him; a conclusion reinforc
ed by the trip to the cathedral and the way the holy place had affected him, even though it was no more than a shell and a mass tomb.

  His mind turned back to the gang he'd slain, eradicating all doubt that they were the ones running the city and were connected to the assault on the monastery. If only he'd shown restraint and followed rather than slaying them, he might have been able to extract the problem by the root and mete out his vengeance to the ones who most deserved it. The rest would now more than likely be running scared, but there was plenty of time to make them pay for their crimes.

  43

  With hours left until dawn, Sam rose from where he lay on top of the blanket. He’d grown into his body and the muscles in his chest and belly rippled when he moved. His breath tested the air in front of his face and he leaned forward through the fog to pick up his robe from where it lay crumpled next to the bed. It was frozen stiff and tried to retain its shape, before it folded down the middle with a quiet crack. The fire hadn’t been lit in days.

  He thought he’d better show some pretence at normality and although he would have preferred to walk around naked rather than wear even the simplest of clothing, he wrapped himself in a blanket and made his way to the yard to fetch wood. Snow had fallen heavily during the day and rounded the edges off everything in the yard. Logs for the fire were stacked at the back of the lean-to, next to the door where they’d keep dry and as Sam picked up an armful, a chunk of snow cracked and slid off the sloping roof, landing in a heap behind him.

  He returned to his room and set about kindling a fire. Soon his breath had become invisible again and his robe was draped loosely over the back of the chair, steaming. Steam was also rising from his skin, which had lost most of its colour and taken on a greyish tinge. He prodded a finger to his stomach. It was unyielding and hard like granite.