The Destroying Angels

By Eva Jarvis

Fear of the plague puts two sisters on a journey to escape a medieval town.

The village where they settle is a dangerous place. If they want to survive, they must outsmart a cold-blooded ruler governing the desperate villagers. Intrigue, violence, and murder follow the sisters at every turn in the dark world of superstition and black magic.

The sisters must endure the reality where the belief in demons is as real as it is sinister. But are the demons behind horrific happenings in the village? In unexpected twists of fate, Rewa has hidden motives, while Marjer must be alert to constant threats that are almost too much to bear. When they both fall for the same man, Marjer suffers deceit and betrayal, but Rewa must act fast before the plague spreads to the village.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398494695

Eva Jarvis

Eva Jarvis set out on a journey of storytelling some four years ago and has been unstoppable ever since. Eva has written many short stories, novellas and four novels. Her imagination takes her into the world of magic and spells, crime and horror and she sometimes wonders where all this comes from. Eva researches her material studying human behaviour, historical facts, and folklore. She believes all is possible in her world of creative writing and she hopes to leave you trembling and shocked from reading her book.

Book preview

About the Author

Eva Jarvis set out on a journey of storytelling some four years ago and has been unstoppable ever since. Eva has written many short stories, novellas and four novels. Her imagination takes her into the world of magic and spells, crime and horror and she sometimes wonders where all this comes from. Eva researches her material studying human behaviour, historical facts, and folklore. She believes all is possible in her world of creative writing and she hopes to leave you trembling and shocked from reading her book.

Dedication

I would like to give special thanks to my editor, Bernard Tominey who supported me in the process of writing this book. Also, special thanks to Austin Macauley Publishers for believing in me and agreeing to publish it.

Copyright Information ©

Eva Jarvis 2023

The right of Eva Jarvis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398494688 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398494695 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Chapter 1

A belching thunder rattled the sky filled with dull clouds, grey and thick like overhanging cobwebs. Another loud clap brought misty fog and a sudden lash of rain. Soaked to the bone, Rewa was kneeling in front of some flat rough rocks, arranged at two metre intervals, and laid purposefully in deep holes at which she stared, then looked up at her sister, Marjer.

They have sealed off their village from outsiders, Rewa explained. I’ve heard of similar rock markings in other northern parts. They are a sign to stop the travellers or trespassers from wandering into the village. Do you see those hills? She pointed with her head towards the horizon above the village.

Behind those green mounds, the air is unspoiled, but any town further north would be sealed off with bricks, like a wall. We will have no chance to get into them. So, Sister, she continued in a cheerless voice, in this village we must make our temporary dwelling.

Cautiously, taking a step forward, Marjer peered across the barren fields then at the sky and to the northern hills hidden by the fog. It was a huge stretch of pastures without the usual clamour of the countryside, where farmers’ whistling, and the cracking of their whips could be heard from faraway. Did the rain keep the livestock from making the common noise of mooing, snorting, bellowing, or grunting? It seemed like time was put on hold or death had ripped through the village, killing every living soul of men and beast.

Tightening her woolly shawl around her shoulders, Marjer was trying to speak through the tearing wind. Are you sure this place is uninfected? She asked, listening to the swirls of the trees in the woods behind them.

Rewa rolled her eyes. I am sure this village is sickness free. Look… she bent over one of the holes, picking up a coin from the soaked ground. I smell vinegar. She sniffed her fingers again. Some believe vinegar stops the deadly spread of disease.

She dropped the coin back to the soil, wiping her hands against the apron tied over her skirt. If the village was infected, there would be a fresh sign, a massive red painted cross and the stink of smoke from burning corpses. Uponexamining a few other holes, she returned to Marjer who was watching her, resting her hand against a long walking stick.

They all look the same, Rewa confirmed. These stony markings are the unspoken signs that no one steps over them from either side. What it means, Sister, is that no one comes in and no one gets out of the village. The village is under quarantine but free of pestilence. The wandering merchants are supposed to leave their assets here and collect the coins.

It seems like no one was here for a long time since there is only one coin left, Marjer noticed, adjusting the bundle hanging from her shoulder. If the villagers don’t want strangers, they will not welcome us either. What if they set their dogs on us or pelt us with stones?

Rewa gave her a sideways glance. I shall bend any devil to my will if I have to. You know me. It is this village or another night in the forest.

Marjer looked back to the forest from where they had just come with a resigned expression. Her leg was hurting, a dull pain from a previous injury that the damp autumn weather typically aggravated. She could hardly stand on her withered leg, the result of a childhood fire accident, and no matter how she tried to disguise her lameness by walking up straight, the visibly slimmer leg was not a match to her other, good leg.

Aware of Rewa’s inflexibility, she could not count on her kindness to help her carry the bundle, frustrated at her sister who kept her bag casually dangling from her shoulder.

Marjer sent a fearful look at the forest, then back at the empty fields with some farmhouses, possibly inhabited by people that could turn nasty in unpredictable times. Equally filling her with dread was the thought of another day walking through the forest where outlaws and bandits reigned under-fed, keen on making a meal out of the two young women.

She was near to tears thinking that perhaps they had left too hastily the comfortable home of their master in a town, their separate beds, and their own fireplace in the centre of their shared room. None of the servants in the house had such a spacious room as them, for their recognition as talented cooks had been recognised by granting them special privileges.

As if reading her mind, Rewa placed her hands on Marjer’s shoulders. We cannot go back, Sister. Beyond these woods there is only death. Do not forget that was the reason why we escaped that morbid town. Every street was littered with corpses and soon no one would be left to bury them.

Marjer shifted her glance to the pines then back to Rewa. How do we know if our mistress has not survived her illness? Our master was not sick, their children were healthy, the servants seemed uninfected.

Rewa’s eyes flashed impatiently. The mistress was showing signs of the pestilence for which there is no cure. The death inspectors came to seal off the house and we were lucky to escape. She lowered her eyes to Marjer’s leg.

Lord knows how we managed this far with your wooden limb. The cruel people were about to nail boards over the door and windows regardless that the rest of the household was not infected. You know that they quarantine the sick together with the healthy. They plaster that dreadful red cross over the door.

She stopped talking to inhale deeply the misty air, scented with pine needles. Here, she turned to Marjer with an unexpected smile, carry this basket. I need my arms free in case I have a fight on my hands. There may be people as thick as your walking stick trying to block us from entering their village, and who will protect you if not me?

Marjer cringed, but Rewa would not have it. Holy bones, cheer up! The worst is behind you.

Marjer wanted to object to carrying things for Rewa, but the clenched jaw, the decisive line of the thin lips and the overbearing stare of grey eyes told her, her older sister was in no mood to listen to objective arguments.

If you think no one came here for a while, there must be a place where the merchants supply the village with food, Rewa said, scanning the horizon. No village can be self-sufficient.

Marjer limped around, poking the wet grass at the boundaries with her stick. I found it! She called out, studying the ground. Look at these small stones, they resemble arrowheads.

Yes, you might be right for once. Rewa focused her eyes at the crudely formed symbol, pointing to the opposite direction from the pasture, and into the woods.

We need to seek a path through the woods that would take us into the village. That’s what this sign tells me.

Rewa, I have a bad feeling—

You always do! Rewa snorted irritably in an unladylike manner. Somewhere along those pine trees the merchants are redirected to negotiate their deals. There must be a path running parallel to the village. A different collection point. I wonder why that would be?

Something terrible is happening in the village, Marjer replied with a crestfallen face. They don’t want the villagers to mingle with strangers.

Rewa’s deep set eyes lingered on a long arrow, piercing through the grass, broken by a misplaced stone. She was already moving in the direction it pointed, hurling at Marjer small curses to follow her without delay.

The witch, Marjer murmured, getting back into the uninviting woods, as a noisy flock of crows shot to the sky, emitting cackling sounds.

Rewa grimaced. Who did you call the witch? The wind brought your nasty name back to me. Perhaps you meant the old hag who normally lives at the village outskirts, brewing in her pots. She touched her hollow belly. I would eat anything, even a toad glazed with honey.

Marjer gave her sister an amused glance. That was the problem with Rewa, always hearing everything around. She saw the world through squinted eyes, but her hearing was as sharp as ever. No matter what Marjer would mumble under her breath, including her protests and disagreements, Rewa would always catch her out.

She would then harshly reprimand Marjer that protesting gets her nowhere, as without her older sister, she would not go far in life. Having Marjer in her clutches, Rewa watched her steps as if expecting Marjer to fall. But Rewa mentioned food, and that’s what made all the difference because Marjer was starving, and although aching from her afflicted leg became unbearable, she followed Rewa’s lead into the cluster of pine trees.

As if in response to her physical discomfort, the sky over the forest loomed darkly under the frequent thunder. It was already late afternoon, and to spend a night in the forest filled Marjer with terror as wolves always outnumbered the outlaws. She wiped away the brownish tinge on her fingers from the coin she had surreptitiously picked up from the hole.

Drop it! Rewa ordered with a frown. You do not know the value of money. How far do you think this copper coin would take you? I keep our money in my pouch in the pocket, as I am the only one responsible here. Now, hop alone after me and do not ask imponderable questions as you always do, Sister.

They plunged back into the uninvited woods to look for a path and after a while, Marjer rose her finger to the birch trees. There! Behind those trees I can see some smoke from a chimney.

Rewa looked in the direction of the grey coloured haze. Having blurry vision, she strained to see anything in the fog that to her eyes resembled a grey shroud of shadows. I see it well, she said with a false smile.

Marjer kicked some stones as they moved towards the house with a smoking chimney. Here, another arrow, she said with a glimmer in her blue eyes. It felt wonderful to be good at something. Although slow and clumsy on her legs, she had keen eyesight, and like a beautiful dark-haired owl, she could spot the slightest movements.

Rewa studied the similar symbol they had encountered earlier near the stones. I saw it long ago, I just didn’t want to scare you, she lied again, studying the symbol from every angle, until at last she saw it for what it was, an arrow built from pebbles.

Marjer watched her sister, stubbornly refusing to admit her short sightedness as if imperfections were sins of lesser mortals. It is slightly different from the one we saw earlier. This one has a tail at its end, she noticed, then drew back from the path, standing behind the tree. She widened her eyes as if the symbol on the ground gave her chills.

It’s a symbol of the devil, she whispered through the hand on her lips. We must retreat from this path because whoever lives in this cottage is a bad person.

Rewa burst out with chuckles. You are talking nonsense! The arrow is for the merchants to find the cottage where they can exchange their merchandise. One thing is clear, while you fear the devil, I laugh with him!

She set her face firmly. Whoever lives there, I shall do all the talking. We will pretend to be the travelling merchant mistresses. Seeing Marjer’s questioning arched brows, she smirked. "We will tell them that we carry rabbit skins in our bundles, or dragon’s blood, or maybe ashes of a saint?

Village folks will believe anything unlike our more sophisticated people in towns. We can say we are bloodletting mistresses, or woodland fairies, selling a cure for the plague. Dry toads, anyone? Fleas’ blood to enhance a speedy recovery?

The more she talked the more she chuckled, pushing forward as her elegant burgundy skirt rustled with her every step. It was a wee bit too short but made of an expensive material and now belonged to her as she had snatched it from their mistress’s chest before she sneaked out with Marjer from the house.

Leaning heavily on the improvised walking cane, Marjer came out from behind the tree, limping over the leaves sleek from the rain and tinged by gold, greens and reddish blasting orange. She walked in small steps behind Rewa, up the slightly curved trail, keeping her eyes on the cottage with the active chimney.

We can always say the truth as to who we are, Marjer suggested. We should be proud to say that we were the cooks in one of the most affluent families and escaped the town ridden with the pestilence.

Rewa shook her head. It’s not always wise to tell the truth. If we confess to escaping the disease-infected house, the villagers will suspect us of carrying the illness in our blood. She brushed against the protruding branches of a tree and came to a halt.

What’s that? Marjer asked with a slight panic. She looked down at the ground, uncovering with her foot a flat stone. Another arrow?

You are wrong, I think it is a flower, Rewa contradicted.

The rain changed to scattered droplets through which they could now see smoke billowing from a chimney, staining the foggy sky with a brown cloud. Marjer fumbled her stick under her armpit to free her hands and blow some hot air into her palms. The stick dropped to the ground and while she bent to pick it up, Rewa unexpectedly snatched it. Losing her balance, Marjer fell face down onto a bed of leaves, gasping at her sister in shock.

Rewa outstretched her hand. Get on your feet, Sister. I need your stick in case the person who lives in this cottage is barking mad or is an old witch conspiring with the devil.

Marjer grabbed the offered arm, wiping away twigs from her skirt as she stood up. They crept closer to have a better view, hiding behind the trees.

As they peeped through the leaves, Rewa was watchful of the surroundings, making her mind up about the small, tilted cottage in front of them. Whoever dwells in this shack is not keen on cleanliness. The walls are rotting away, and I bet the occupants drink dirt for water.

As they reached the fringe of a slender, silvery tree, they slowed down as they approached a small timbered hut, where in front a man was standing only in his shirt. Watching the woods, he could hardly stand on his legs, scratching at his body with a twig.

What on earth is he doing? Rewa pulled a face. I don’t like the fact he is itching so much. Then she squinted her eyes to study the man. He is an old, scraggy rug bag. And something tells me he worships the devil and not our Lord. Look at his state, a fool dressed in a filthy shirt and without his breeches.

She focused scornfully on the abhorrent looking person who eagerly scratched with twigs down to his loins, wincing and moaning as if in pain.

Still, it might be cosy inside his wretched house, Rewa said. I could do with something hot in my belly. She turned her face to Marjer. If he tries to do something funny, I shall poke his eyes out with your stick and throw them like stones at these annoying bugs. She chuckled, waving her hand at a mosquito.

They emerged from the trees as quietly as ghosts, walking on wet ground to where the old man, having stopped what he was doing, stared at them in bewilderment.

Strangers are not welcomed here! He called out in an old man’s voice. Do not come through my yard! I am Ifan, and I have warned you.

Rewa clutched Marjer’s walking stick tightly. We are not strangers, not at all, she said in a friendly manner. We are the wandering lady merchants bringing some business deals to your village. I see you have many sacks strewn over your garden.

Rewa’s confidence was infectious as the man gazed from her to Marjer, trying to guess what was in those bulky wraps around their shoulders.

Ifan scratched at his chin. Show me first what you have to offer, he said, leaning curiously over Marjer.

Don’t come any closer, you dung smelling thing, Rewa barked at him.

He spread his hands defensively. I mean you no harm. Do come for a hot meal, I have a freshly made stew. He paused to cough. I do not invite strangers into my home but for you I have two pots ready on a burn.

He stretched his back to appear taller, glancing nervously at Rewa. Amidst a spitting hacking cough, he tried to talk but roused, his voice faltered into a harsh whisper. Nothing better than a hot meal after a day’s journey, ha? He grimaced in a forced smile.

I don’t like him, Marjer whispered.

His sudden change to lure them inside, made Rewa raise her brows. In a minute. First, I want to see what you have in those sacks. I see your courtyard is cluttered with all sorts of things. My bet is those scattered sacks come from merchants. It is hard to believe that you do the dealing, considering your unsavoury upkeep. She narrowed her eyes to slits. Or did you steal it from them, luring them into your house for supper? Seeing Ifan’s growing unease, she tossed a stone at a sack. I am curious how a flea haired old bone like yourself could afford to hoard sacks? Who is in charge of you?

Do not touch my things! Ifan fumed, trotting up and down after Rewa who was already snooping around his yard. He stood in front of her with his face contorted in hatred. There have been no merchants in our village for ages except for that lowlife Gib, the peddler. The sacks are empty but for stones!

You lying devil! Rewa lost her patience, kicking an open sack. You have sheepskins! From another bundle, she pulled out some jars filled with herbs among which she recognised sage and lavender. She opened one container sniffing some tobacco. Some special items we have here. Who did you steal them from?

Ifan, who scowled at Rewa waving Marjer’s walking stick like a weapon, choked down on a sudden bout of coughing. I didn’t steal anything! He yelled, spitting phlegm around him.

Who was here with such a big load of goods? Rewa asked, pointing the stick at Ifan’s chest.

I don’t remember, he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. Rewa’s stare was unnerving. Each time he looked into her eyes, he scratched more at his arms beneath his shirt, jittering with nerves. He was not even sure if she was looking at him or through him, peering with her grey eyes like she could not tell the difference between a bat and a sow.

Rewa gave Marjer a meaningful look. Then she crossed the backyard, beckoning Marjer to follow her into Ifan’s cottage. She kicked open the door, leaving Ifan trotting after them and trembling from anger at Rewa’s boldness.

The moment Rewa stepped into the murky place, she grimaced coldly, turning her attention to Ifan. Do not come close to me or my sister. Keep your distance or I will break this stick over your back. Now, what do you have to eat? She made herself comfortable, sitting on a stool.

Astounded to see an elaborately crafted candle holder standing in the centre of the table, she narrowly studied it, recognising it as made of copper. She put it back, knowing it must have come from theft because objects of beauty were not something commonly found in peasants’ houses.

I see a large pot with some muck. But we are hungry, so we will eat what you offer, Rewa said casually. And after our bellies are full, we will check the content of all of your sacks. Her voice sounded harsh, making Ifan go instantly to the hearth, placing one pot to boil.

You must be sisters, he noted, stirring in the stew with a wooden spoon. None of your business, Rewa replied, giving a wink to Marjer.

I don’t see similarities in you two, I only guessed, he muttered, studying the sisters from across the kitchen. Then he coughed up.

Having established the upper hand, Rewa slammed the table. Do not bother me with small talk. You spit too much, for a start. One would think you have already succumbed to the plague.

Seeing Marjer’s horrified expression, she rolled her eyes.

Looking sullen, Ifan sprinkled some herbs into the cooking pot, added some peeled mushrooms and swirled it all anticlockwise.

There is a new lord in our village, he said, catching Rewa’s curious stare. He is our priest, who declared emergency laws that no one can enter our land, and no one can leave. To keep us all safe, he ordered us to put the stones and dig some holes, a common sign to not let trespassers into the village. A merchant who came into the village must have a business arrangement to collect goods from my backyard.

What about the field with marked stones, no one leaves the goods over there?

He kept on stirring the pot, turning occasionally around to send Rewa’s menacing glances. If the goods were left by the stones, the peasants would steal them without paying. So now, they bring here what they have to offer.

Rewa assumed he was a liar and shrugged off his glowering, already planning how to take a hold of his stored merchandise and the copper candle holder.

As if to prove he did not like her either, Ifan let out a nasty, loud fart. The smell made Marjer grab Rewa’s elbow. I don’t like this smell, she whispered with anxious eyes. He is diseased, his humours are boiling inside of him.

Rewa nodded and looked around the dreary place, creasing her nose in disgust. It was awful. Bits of food from previous days stuck to pots and wooden spoons, and the whole place was infested with flies. Damp and decay were visible on mouldy walls, on the cooking pots, on clay pottery, and even on wooden pieces of furniture.

Against the wall from where they were sitting waiting for the stew, there was a piss bucket filled to the brim, swarmed by insects. Thick cobwebs hung from nooks and corners gathering dust and deceased spiders, and the acrid smell in the air made Marjer’s eyes started to tingle.

Ifan blew at the flames in the hearth, making the food in the pot bubble noisily. Nearly ready, he said with a wry smile.

The open fire shed enough light to make Marjer wary of the space where across the floor slugs crawled towards their feet, and which Rewa squashed with her foot.

What is this place? Rewa whispered into Marjer’s ear. That sour devil gives me the shivers. Maybe he is already dead?

She was about to say more when Ifan tapped with the spoon on the iron pot, bubbling and hissing while spilling white foam. Making a crunching sound with his tongue, he announced that the dinner was ready. Just then, Marjer looked down from her stool to the floor, noticing stems of mushrooms with cut off heads amidst some shrunken old cabbage leaves. A frown creased her face when she poked at the food scraps with her stick.

She looked up at Ifan carrying the hot pot, holding it through his clothes so as to not burn his fingers. Cautiously crossing the floor, he lifted his face to Marjer, reading her terribly frightened expression as a hint she had discovered his evil intentions. He was nearly at the table when Marjer, fidgeting in her seat, dropped her walking stick accidentally to the floor rolling under Ifan’s feet.

With an unexpected twist of his legs, he fell on his back, spilling the scalding stew on himself and in the