Marcii (The Dreadhunt Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

It wasn’t her best idea, Marcii had to admit.

She knew Malorie wasn’t the most liked, or trusted, among those in Newmarket. But, if Marcii was honest with herself, that was part of the reason she wanted to visit the kindly woman again so soon.

What with all the rumours and conspiracies and distrust that Mayor Tyran was stirring amongst the townsfolk, no one was really safe, but especially not those that were already outcast.

She wasn’t entirely sure where her casual composure was coming from, considering all that had happened of late.

The nameless monster that had been slaughtering people in the night.

The hangings.

The bloody symbols.

The fear.

Perhaps she was being foolish, but Marcii pushed any thought of consequences from her mind, pressing on regardless.

Malorie was her friend.

She wanted to make sure that she was alright.

She made the excuse to her mother that she was going to see Malorie to pick up more herbs.

At first Amanda was outraged, for it had been less than a week since she’d sent her daughter last. But, for once daringly fighting her corner, Marcii pointed out that the lingering smell from the decaying cats and smeared blood, scattered all about the town, was vile to say the very least.

They had been burning fresh herbs to cover the foul stench seemingly by the hour.

Vermin and rodents of all shapes and sizes had multiplied in number exponentially over the past week, only adding to the problem.

And, though Tyran had of course assured his people that the smell was a good thing: that it was warding off the evil spirits that all these so called witches were summoning, it was, without a shadow of a doubt, revolting.

Finally, wrinkling her nose more and more every time Marcii so much as mentioned the dreadful stench, Amanda Dougherty at last conceded. She handed her daughter a few coins and sent her on her way to buy more herbs to burn, just grateful to be rid of her for a few hours, for times were taxing enough as it was.

The weather outside was grim and for some reason that put Marcii even more on edge. The terrible smell of death and the fear coursing through everybody’s veins seemed to hang in the very air itself, damp and relentless.

She pulled the hood up on her jacket and hid away from the drizzling rain as best she could manage. As she passed silently through the streets and down the narrow alleyways, though it was nearly the middle of the day, it was almost as dark as it had been the previous night. Above her the ominous clouds were black and thick and overbearing, watching her as she walked.

For some reason the weather seemed to affect Marcii’s mood more substantially than it ever had done before. By the time she eventually reached Malorie’s curious little home, as quaint and inviting as ever, Marcii’s surly disposition was obvious to any onlooker.

However, though she’d hoped for exactly the opposite, upon her arrival, the sight which greeted Marcii did nothing to set her at ease. Her breath was filled with dread and her eyes pooled with dismay as she approached Malorie’s cottage.

Keeping her distance, not wanting to be seen too close to Malorie’s home at first, for the sight was all but horrific, Marcii slipped into an alleyway to gather her wits and her composure.

She peeked round the corner with a lump lodged in her throat.

Three cats were skewered in Malorie’s front garden, undoubtedly hers. Marcii recalled seeing them only a few days ago, the last time she had visited.

Presumably in the poor creatures’ blood, painted across the entirety of the house, covering every inch from the door to the rooftop, were those same symbols Marcii and Kaylm had seen the priests painting on the church only the night before.

Unquestionably, the symbols had been painted by Tyran’s hirelings, meant to ward off evil and warn all who passed that a witch resided within.

Surely, to be seen entering such a place would condemn Marcii as well.

But she was committed now.

She hadn’t come this far just to give up.

Malorie was her friend, and with that in mind the young Dougherty stepped out into the meagre light. Drenched still by the ceaseless rain she stole through the dreadful day and towards her destination.

She slipped inside swiftly, not even knocking at the door between the crumbling stones, for she knew the longer she spent upon the doorstep the more likely it was she would be seen.

As soon as she entered she pushed the door quickly to behind her. It closed with a faintly audible click and Marcii surveyed the mess revealed before her with eyes wide.

Considering Malorie’s home was only tiny inside, with barely enough room for what seemed like two dozen belongings, it appeared that Tyran’s enforcers had been most thorough. The table was overturned, and strewn about everywhere were smashed plates and cups and saucers and pots.

The tiny living room and kitchen were in a horrendous state and Marcii felt dreadful at the mere sight of what lay before her.

So fixated was she on what she saw that when Malorie finally spoke the young Dougherty jumped nearly a foot in the air.

“Marcii.” Malorie breathed, her voice laden with sorrow.

“Oh my God!” Marcii cried, shuddering as her words escaped her in fright.

“My apologies…” Malorie offered as Marcii regained her breath, clutching at her chest amidst the mess strewn all around. “I didn’t mean to startle you…”

“It’s okay…” Marcii managed, half laughing as she spoke, waving it off casually. “Don’t worry…”

“Why have you come child?” Malorie asked then, cutting straight to the point as she often did, concern flooding from her words. “It’s too dangerous for you to be here.”

“My mother needs more herbs…” Marcii started, but she did not finish.

The look Malorie gave her then was perhaps the hardest, most withering gaze Marcii had ever seen from the strange, likeable woman. In response, the young girl silenced immediately and sighed most heavily.

“I was worried about you.” Marcii admitted. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Malorie’s eyes softened, but her words were still weighed down by worry.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The strange, distraught woman warned, as if her safety mattered not in the slightest.

She was only concerned for Marcii.

Outside the skies only darkened further and the rain continued its ceaseless descent, hammering against the roof above them until it became almost deafening. Marcii glanced up fearfully, though it was not the weather that frightened her so, but instead a threat altogether less natural and more prominent.

“I wanted to come.” Marcii insisted. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

Malorie smiled ruefully and her deep violet eyes were laced with sorrow, but she said not another word of it.

She glanced about her home, or what was left of it, in dismay.

“I tried to hide them…” She began then, stooping to retrieve a chair that had been overturned. She righted it and sank wearily into its embrace.

Marcii did the same, taking a seat opposite Malorie and gazing across the overturned table at her deeply lined face.

“My cats…” Malorie clarified. “I hid them for a few days, but eventually they became too upset being cooped up…”

Marcii nodded sorrowfully, but she did not speak.

“They didn’t understand…” Malorie continued. “They didn’t know…”

“It wasn’t your fault…” Marcii attempted. “Tyran’s a monster…”

Hard as she could try, Marcii knew it would be impossible to lessen Malorie’s grief. Nonetheless, she so desperately wanted to help her, for she felt a strange and indescribable connection to this woman whom had, for some reason, become such a central pillar in her life.

“Yes…” Malorie agreed, but then she paused, though there was still unspoken breath in her lungs.

There was more to that statement, and Marcii knew it.

She waited, her own breath clutched tightly, hardly even daring to move.

Finally, after much deliberation it seemed, Malorie continued.

“But the people don’t see that…” She eventually sighed, the very sound of it weary and burdened. “He has blinded them. He has given them a common enemy. And he has done it so convincingly that I don’t know if they will ever see through it…”

“I see through it.” Marcii replied adamantly. “I won’t ever let his words fool me.”

Her statement was not an opinion, but instead fact, and Malorie knew it.

The mysterious woman, whose age was a secret only she and time itself knew, smiled affectionately.

Hard as she tried though, she could not hide the pain behind those violet eyes, pooling with wisdom and truths unknown.

“I know.” She agreed kindly. “But you are unique, Marcii Dougherty.” Malorie pressed on. “Others do not see the world in the way you do. So long as Tyran rules them, they will always be blinded, and I fear that there is still much worse to come…”

Chapter Thirteen

              The following morning, only half an hour or so after sunrise, Marcii stood amongst the heaving crowds in the square, in the very centre of Newmarket.

Although the elements that daybreak were ferocious, her mind was not on the fierce wind that harassed her.

Nor was it upon the freezing, icy rain that refused to relent as it lashed down.

No. Instead, as Marcii’s gaze drilled across the square, her mind was upon Tyran, and how she so deeply mistrusted the self-proclaimed Mayor.

Malorie’s words the previous day had served only to heighten Marcii’s disgust for the terrible man. But, had she known how deeply her loathing for him would run by the end of even just that miserable day, she would have set herself upon him there and then.

“My people!” Tyran boomed across the tightly packed square, beginning his speech in the usual fashion, and every time it set Marcii’s teeth on edge.

It was as if he thought he owned them.

They were not for sale, but clearly he thought he was buying them, just as he was buying their trust.

However, as she glanced around, Marcii was repulsed by what she saw. Painted across the faces of her fellow townsfolk, clear as day, was a shared expression that could only be described as nothing short of ecstasy, developed yet even further beyond the rapture that had consumed them only the other day.

She ground her teeth silently together, grating them over one another until her jaw ached.

“There have been no more attacks!” He announced immediately, throwing his arms up as his voice boomed. He was greeted by a unified cheer from all the hundreds upon thousands in his wake.

Marcii made not a sound.

“But!” He interjected, forcing one hand forward and bringing rapt silence to his audience.

He had them literally in the palm of his hand and it made Marcii sick to the stomach. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and glanced around briefly, setting her eyes unmistakeably on Tyran’s enforcers.

They were very difficult to miss, for now they numbered almost a hundred and were all garbed in the same uniformed manner.

They stood strong and proud and surrounded the crowds protectively.

Marcii laughed inwardly.

Protective in the same way wolves surround their prey, she thought.

“Our work is not yet finished!” Tyran continued. “Evil still lurks within our streets! And it could strike us down at any moment!”

Mumbling chatter shot through his ranks. His enforcers shifted their weight in turn, almost unnoticeably, and the subtle movement silenced his crowd yet again.

“I vowed to protect you! And protect you I shall!”

The masses cheered and roared but he pressed on, somehow raising his voice even louder than the vast numbers before him.

“I have identified another witch!” He proclaimed. “And she is the most powerful one yet!”

Undoubtedly, that was a lie, but it had the desired effect.

Shouts and cries came from his people, demanding to know who she was, demanding that he stop her, demanding her head.

However, this time it was not Tyran’s words that quietened the crowd’s cries. Instead, it was those of another.

They belonged, at least in Marcii’s eyes, to a much more revered man than their so called saviour.

When Francis Gold stepped forward from the sea of followers, refusing to yield to Tyran’s concealed demands, just as Marcii refused, the Mayor’s eyes grew not wide, but instead maddened by the sight that confronted him. An uncontrollable rage boiled up inside of him and all but consumed his portly, potbellied frame.

The head of the Priesthood threw back the hood of his robe and strode up to the centre of the square, facing off against Tyran even just in his approach.

Enforcers swarmed instantly around Tyran, brandishing swords and spears and axes, and Francis simply looked on at them with undisguised disgust.

The longstanding head of the Priesthood remained unflinching.

He was an elderly gentleman with an entirely bald head. Regardless of his age however, he was by no means weak. He was a thick set chap, though neither muscular nor scrawny.

              He wore black, hooded Priesthood robes that fell all the way down to the floor. He had very dark skin and a thicker accent than most. As far as Marcii had ever been able to tell, certainly he wasn't from Newmarket.

              He’d come from a place far away and rumour had always had it that he’d fled from the clutches slavery.

Whether the stories were true or not, Marcii had no idea. But, if they were, Tyran’s murderous accusations would surely have offended Francis’ morals beyond belief, and undoubtedly the old priest would fight the tyrant until his very last breath.

“Is this how you treat your people!?” Gold demanded, raising his voice so that everybody present could hear. “You herd us like cattle!? And then threaten us with our lives!? Based on nothing but your assumptions!?”

“Francis.” Tyran replied coldly. His voice was filled with malice and seething as, with a flick of his fingers, he waved his guards away and they dispersed back to their original sentry positions. “A pleasure, as always…” He lied, slowly spitting the words, accentuating every sound.

“This is insane, Tyran!” Gold rebuked. “It’s inhumane! You can’t just hunt people down because you deem them to be a witch! You don’t even have any proof!!”

“There haven’t been any more attacks.” Tyran countered, and his crowd, in the palm of his hand, cheered in support.

“This is not God’s work!!” Gold demanded. “It’s wrong!! It’s barbaric!!”

However, this time, Tyran did not reply, and the crowd before them both fell silent, caught on a knife edge.

The greasy, potbellied Mayor clasped his hands behind his back and took several, long, slow, wandering footsteps over to where Gold stood. Still the head of the Priesthood did not sway. He remained resolute in the face of evil, as he had so vowed right from his very first day in his vocation.

He would not stand by and allow for these monstrous acts to continue.

“Francis…” Tyran breathed, loud enough only for his single adversary to hear. “Oh Francis…” He warned. “What am I going to do with you…?”

“You are going to stop this madness!” Gold demanded, refusing to hush his voice in the same way Tyran had done. “You are going to stop murdering innocent people!”

“So!” Tyran responded in kind, raising his powerful, booming voice so that it carried for what felt like miles. “They’ve got you too have they!?” He questioned purposefully, smiling a cruel, sly grin that only Gold could see.

“Don’t be absurd…” Gold attempted, but Tyran cut him off, playing his crowd expertly.

“You’re in tow with the witches now, are you!?” He pressed, raising himself up menacingly and encroaching upon Gold victoriously.

His crowd gasped and shuddered visibly.

“There’s no such…” Gold attempted again, but, unfortunately, it seemed it would be his last challenge.

Without another word, driven by his vast, innate fury and lust for power, Tyran doubled his hand into a fist and struck the old priest in the chest. He drove his blow upwards and forced the breath from Gold’s body.

Francis doubled over in agony and crumpled to the floor in an instant.

But Tyran was not finished with the old man yet.

He grabbed Gold by the scruff of his robe, dragged him along the ground and prostrated him before his eager, on looking crowd.

“CONSPIRACY!” Tyran roared, driving his people into a frenzy of shouts and screams and curses and jeers.

Gold fought and gasped desperately for breath. No matter how hard she tried to force her way through the heaving masses, fraught with horror at what she saw, Marcii could not for the life of her reach Gold to aid him.

“He seeks to condemn us!!” Tyran bellowed.

And as he drove the people of Newmarket into yet an even greater craze, he casually kicked Gold repeatedly as he struggled upon the floor before them.

In the ribs.

In the back.

In the head.

Again and again and again.

The crowds cheered and roared.

Marcii screamed for him to stop.

She screamed for them all to stop.

But they did not hear her cries.

Tyran grabbed Gold by the scruff of his neck once more and dragged him up and onto his knees. He was so weak that his head hung back and his eyes rolled. He only just about managed to stay upright, swaying slowly left and right.

“We must fight this threat!!” Tyran ordered, and his people roared their agreement. “We must protect ourselves!!”

And with that, cheered on by virtually the entirety of Newmarket, Tyran drew a small, ivory handled blade from within his jacket.

He held it up for the people to see, perfectly clear in his intention, and they revelled in his truth.

“KILL HIM!!” Came the roar from the square.

Tyran gladly complied, grinning evilly as he reached in and slid the perfect blade smoothly around the curve of Gold’s throat.

Gold spluttered and choked and gasped desperately, but Tyran held his robe firmly, keeping him still as his rich, red life sprayed out over the front row of the crowd.

But they did not recoil from it. Instead, as the hot, thick, frothing blood doused them, they revelled in it, bawling with the pleasure of satisfied hunger.

Tyran had set the example.

If fact, it was a threat just as much as it was an example.

Others would follow him now, and he knew it. If not through choice, they would follow him through fear.

“It is the witches who have summoned these evil spirits to plague us!!” He roared, raising his bloodied hands above his head in exultation, finally allowing Gold’s limp and drained body to crumple to the floor.

Marcii retched.

“We must protect ourselves!! We must fight them!!”

Tyran rejoiced as his people cheered in agreement and triumph.

All, it seemed, except for Marcii.

There must have been others, she hoped.

But, even if there were, they were likely only a mere handful.

And then began the sound that would haunt Marcii’s dreams for a lifetime and even longer.

She had no idea who started it, but that didn’t really matter.

The fact still remained: everybody loved it.

              “HUNT THE WITCH!!” The crowds chanted, championing their saviour.

              Tyran was driven on by the sound and, most terrifyingly of all for Marcii, he seemed in that mere, single, dreadful chant, to be exalted to the point of immortality.

              And still, relentlessly, the chant continued.

              Marcii could not bear it.

              But, at the same time, neither could she escape it.

              “HUNT THE WITCH!! HUNT THE WITCH!!”