Stories of Adelwreth

Sewer Rats

Bleuamar’s brown polished shoes clacked on the damp, hard stone of the sewers. He adjusted his spectacles and turned to accept the torch from the good doctor climbing down the ladder. The darkness was deep, the manhole above them almost invisible

“What a night,” said the doctor, contorting his face in disgust as he drew in the putrid air. “Well, we best get on with it.” He inspected his revolver—all chambers full—and spun the cylinder.

“Fine piece of art this.” He holstered it and motioned for Bleuamar to lead the way. Bleuamar tucked his sword cane under his arm and walked into the darkness. He’d never thought this would become his life. Neither had he expected that he would invent one of the best revolvers currently available in the world. He held the torch up and to the side so he could see better in the dark. They walked north; they were looking for something. Luckily, the people who had planned and built Adelwreth had had the sense to place a walkway in the sewer system. Sure, you had to wade across the murky faecal river to change direction, but mostly you could keep to the sides and avoid disgust for a few minutes.

How strange this all was. Bleuamar was, after all, just a simple librarian. He put books in their places, found them if anyone was looking for them, and sorted and stored them. Frequently, he found himself reading the books that no one else did. Such was his life. Simple. Without mishap or adventure. But everything changed when he received a letter from a certain Mr Thule. Enquiries about mythical creatures. One such book, Canines and Moons, was especially helpful in answering the questions that had arose during their correspondence.

Bleuamar glanced over his shoulder at the doctor. That is how all this had started. He had shared a carriage with this doctor and had gotten to know him on the way to the estate. How different even the doctor had been at that time. Alive, but not living, a heartbeat away from being pronounced dead. 

Claw marks streaked the wall across the river of disgust. The doctor grabbed Bleuamar’s shoulder and pointed. Bleuamar fixed his spectacles and waded across, the doctor following close behind. At least this was the first time they had to go into the sewers, he thought.

Almost no one knew what Bleuamar and the doctor did. Oh, the Thule’s knew, Jimmy Mason knew—if the Constable had sense, he would have known—and some of the caps knew. Half the time they themselves didn’t even know what they were about to do.

“Look,” said the doctor, picking up remains of half-eaten rats. “Rigor mortis has not set in, still warm, couldn’t have been long ago…” he trailed off. There was something different, something they had only experienced THERE.

A deep thumping, like a heartbeat… it made one feel comfortably warm, yet unsettled.

“You feel it too?” Bleuamar whispered.

“Aye,” the doctor nodded.

The doctor unholstered the revolver and they continued on, crossing the rivers, finding more remains scattered here and there. Bleuamar imagined hearing that roar down here. How would they take it now? The first time they had hidden cowardly, the next time they had valorously stood their ground. What was this thing they were tracking? Another of Manorell’s creations? Surely that had been the only one. The events were spaced out too far apart, yet this thing killed much in the same manner.

That first victim—that first death—had brought the doctor back to life, it seemed. The second had made him something else, and the attempt on their lives by someone they thought they could trust, had unleashed them.

Bleuamar fixed his lapel and adjusted the badge underneath. It was a simple bronze casting—two M’s reflected vertically in a ring that was inscribed with a title.

Claws clattered against stone in the distance… then, something trudging through water, moving away from them and to the east.

The two men quickened their pace. Bleuamar unsheathed the sword from the cane. Sword in his left hand, cane in his right hand with the torch. They turned the corner, the doctor aiming the revolver over Bleuamar’s shoulder.

Nothing.

The corridor was as empty as the others, so they continued on. The heartbeat became louder… oppressive, drumming in their chests. It seemed as if something was trying to crush them and then rip them apart from inside. Their own heartbeats, however, were calm and steady.

All of them had a past—the doctor had lost his wife and had failed as a physician in the Native Wars. Bleuamar had insulted royalty that had failed to return a book and, well, had to live with the consequences. Harold had been dishonourably discharged from the Royal Cavalry and was addicted to gambling. He was probably drinking at the tavern at that moment. Gilli was an inventor with no regard for his neighbour. Bleuamar had first met Gilli as he was trying to remove a carriage wheel so that he could make a centrifuge—the carriage still being occupied at the time. Nonetheless, they all had special qualities. Qualities that only Mr Thule had seen.

The two abruptly stopped. A cool breeze was blowing from their right. There was not supposed to be a corridor here. They checked the map. It was not on the plans, neither did it look the same age as the rest of the sewer system. It was older, much older.

“What you reckon?” asked the doctor.

“Seems a good a place as any,” replied Bleuamar. He fixed his spectacles, looked up at either end of the corridor and said, “This might be its lair. If the rest of the sewers look like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. We’ve covered about a quarter and…” he swallowed, “well, I’m itching to find out what that is. Feels as if it’s coming from down here anyway.”

The breeze coincided with the heartbeat, brushing against them one way, then the other.

They started towards the corridor. There was no river here—just a hallway, as one might find in a house.

“What bugs me, doctor,” said Bleuamar, peering into the darkness, “is that if we carry on for ten or so meters, we will be right beneath the church.”

“Aye,” said the doctor, “and there is a smell I know all too well. I really hope I am wrong about it.”

Ten metres and they stood inside a circular room, six meters in diameter, with a statue of an angelic being in the centre. Wax covered the floor, bones piled up against the walls, and a half-eaten corpse lay in the corner. Bleuamar looked up. A trapdoor, just out of arms reach. 

“Just as I feared,” said the doctor, sitting by the corpse. “Boy, mid-teens, probably an orphan, bound and gagged, drugged as well, I presume.” 

“What do you make of this?” Bleuamar gestured towards the statue. Around it, painted on the floor not too long ago it seemed, was a circle with a series of jagged spikes.

“Looks like the statues at the estates,” he stroked his beard. “But much, much older.”

“This rock isn’t even from here,” said Bleuamar, attempting to touch it. “Look…”

As he touched it, he was flung back against the wall—a deep boom and a bright light emanating from the statue. He was THERE and then he wasn’t THERE in an instant.

A screeching roar sounded in the sewers, not too far off.

“You alright?” asked the doctor as he quickly picked up the torch and aimed his weapon at the hallway.

“Yes, yes,” Bleaumar groaned and gestured that they should get moving. “Go”.

As he stood up, he slipped and smudged a part of the paint of the circle. Comfort flowed through him. In the dark came another screeching roar, and crashing through the dark rivers of disgust, was the thing moving away from them.

Bleaumar got up again, grabbed his sword and cane, and the two men charged into the darkness. Neither of them cared for the smell or the disgust they were storming through. They just had to get to that roar. It did seem different to that first roar now—more natural, but infinitely more evil.

They dashed down a corridor, ran up an alley, and jumped into the river—they were catching up to the roars and trudging. Bleuamar tapped his pocket, making sure it was there. He nodded at the doctor and rounded the final corner.

The doctor flung the torch across the river to the walkway. First, he only saw the eyes, then the enormous hulk of some gigantic mutated rat creature. He opened fire. Bleuamar threw his cane at the creature and ran headlong towards it.

First shot, second shot, third shot.

Bleuamar took the key out of his pocket, turned his right shoulder at the creature and clanged the key with his sword. It rang for what felt like an eternity. He hoped he timed it right. The creature seemed about two meters away—hopefully, it doesn’t move back.

***

What was THERE this time? He had become accustomed to it. If one were to believe the stories and myths of the Natives, it could be the Maw. But not enough is known about the Maw. They said it was somewhere on this island. Always feeding, always spawning…a glutton and an indulger of decadence. Many stories relate to a great war between the servants of the Maw and the servants of the New. The key looked much like a tuning fork, but it had a radiant white glow to it that was kind of mesmerising. The first one they had found had been beneath the old lighthouse, buried with some kind of knight. Stories tell that the New had been men that came from the seas, with glistening armour and spectacular ships. Many have speculated that the settlers had not been the first people to come to this island. Paintings and devices from the Natives depicted knights and armour. Some of the motifs and statues in Adelwreth had no explanation for being there. Most people were just happy enough to accept that some unknown sculptor had made them. There were even paintings and portraits of men fighting creatures in a red pit. Scholars and religious people plainly stated that these were artistic depictions of the constant struggle between good and evil. But the man on that black horse, recurring in those paintings—that man looked familiar. He had an eccentric air, flowing blonde hair and a welcoming face. Yet, he fought for the creatures.

Throbbing. Red masses. Creatures turned their thousand-eyed faces toward him as he still ran. Some of them had bat-like wings, some had tentacles, others had mouths that did not have enough space for their teeth. He was THERE. He clanged the key again and just before some creature could bite his face off he was back in a dark, wet sewer. He swung towards his left. The roar and fourth shot’s echo died out in the darkness. The creature’s head plopped into the water.

“Nice fur for a coat,” said Bleuamar as he inspected the creature.

“Aye,” replied the doctor, “I think we should go to the service tomorrow, pay that priest a visit.”

“Right you are,” replied Bleuamar and smirked. “I’ve always thought it strange how he stopped us from poking about in that first investigation. Time to order a new one. I hear there is one at Delewreth looking for a congregation. Heard he can hold his own in a brawl.”

***

A few days later, wiping a smudge from his brown shoes, Bleuamar noticed a painting in one of the less-visited parts of the library. He stroked his Ratskin coat and walked up to it. It was a portrait of that man in all those other paintings. He inspected it. At the back, there was an inscription:

Portrait commissioned by W.W., Summer of 1683

Something was off, but he just could not place it. 

“You ready Bleuamar?” came the familiar distant call. The doctor had grown accustomed to entering the library and bellowing about over the silence whenever they were heading to the Thule Estate.

Time for some answers, Bleuamar thought. He looked at the painting one last time and went around the corner towards Glen Podark, his good friend, the good doctor.

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