A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Page 19

  “They are dead.” Harold said lamely as he hovered only inches over Ernest. Yet again, Harold was the first on the scene of a crime but thankfully he had the best of alibis this time and they would not be able to pin this on him even if they were still looking for him for the other murders.

  “I can damn well see that. Do you know what happened?” Mr Briers demanded as his wife led the young girl inside.

  Harold never did find out why such a young girl was on the streets so early in the morning. That was a secret between her and the women she called Granny.

  “I don’t know.” Harold lied. He didn’t know for sure but he had a good idea who was to blame, William. Harold began to walk away, only now realising his bare feet were soaked and frozen.

  “Hey wait.” Harold heard Mr. Brier shout from behind him but Harold did not stop until he was home. He went straight to the kitchen, washed the blood from his hands before settling by the fire to warm his feet. Harold chose to sit in his father’s old chair. Muriel was sitting in his chair; the concern was clear on her face.

  “What’s going on out there?” She asked him. Harold had been surprised she didn’t follow him into the kitchen when he first came back in. Surely the sight of his blood soaked hands should have raised some questions, but then again, maybe a man coming in covered in blood was not as much of a shock to a woman of Muriel’s profession as it would have been to him.

  “There’s been another murder, two in fact. I doubt it’ll be long before the guard are called. It’s early so many of them will still be sleeping their hangovers off but there’s the odd one who still remembers what being a city guard is all about and they’ll come to investigate.” Harold said, closing his eyes. He had known he wouldn’t have long to mourn his father but he had barely been in the catacombs of the church a mere twelve hours and once again, fate had thrown Harold into the scene of another gruesome act of the horror that was becoming his everyday life.

  “So are we going to have to run? We can always go back to mine again.” Muriel offered up. Harold didn’t say anything in reply; he didn’t know what to do. They had only just moved out from Muriel’s back to his father’s home, in the hopes that Harold would get a chance to take revenge on the O’Brien’s, and now they laid dead outside in the street; the house once again became a mausoleum to his father. Harold pulled the piece of paper from his pocket that he had found in the dead thugs pocket. It was damp and stunk of alcohol, but it was still readable.

  ‘To the O’Brien family, I have tasked my altar boy with finding you in the hopes that you can do me a service, a service that will benefit us both. Reverend Paul Augustus.’

  Harold read and almost dropped the paper in shock and his mouth hung open. Harold read the name repeatedly. Reverend Paul Augustus. The man who had buried his father, the priest that Harold had been standing next to yesterday with the acid in his stomach churning like soar milk telling him something was wrong. Harold had been face to face with someone who had dealings with the O’Brien’s. It all fell into place for him at that moment; it was like looking at the box while doing a puzzle. All the little things that Harold had missed fell into place. The fact the William had been buried at Saint Anne’s and that his body must have been dug up there. The way the priest looked at Muriel, the blackness to his eyes, there was something unsettling about him. The letter connecting the O’Brien’s to him made as irrefutable evidence that Paul had dealings with the underworld. A priest should have no need to contact criminals. He had something to do with it all. He was either involved in it all in some way or he knew who was. Harold had to go back to the church to find him. Harold could rest later.

  “ Muriel. I have to go somewhere. Wait here for me. If the guard come, light a candle in the front bedroom upstairs and I’ll know not to come back. I won’t be long.” Harold said trying to hide the fear from his voice.

  “ What’s on that bit of paper? Tell me what’s going on?” She begged, not missing the change in his demeanour after reading the note.

  “I think the priest has something to do with all this. The two murders outside were the thugs that attacked my father. With them dead I only have to watch out for the guard but they’ll no doubt be here soon so I have to go to Saint Anne’s now. I have to find out what the priest knows, if he knows about William or what’s behind all this. It might help prove my innocence or, if nothing else, help me find out who started this.”

  “Just come back safe Harold.” Muriel said, before turning away from him and walking towards the stairs. Harold slipped on his shoes with his feet still damp, but he did not care as he headed out, leaving Muriel to try and sleep. It was too risky to take her with him, for all Harold knew William could be at Saint Anne’s waiting for him.

  Harold left in such a hurry he forgot his coat and was soaked through before he got to the end of the road. He briefly thought of going back to change, but the chance of the guard being on their way was too great, and he couldn’t get caught now that they finally had a lead that might start answering some questions. Harold battled onwards, twitching as the ice-cold droplets dripped from his sodden hair down his spine. As he turned out of Greenway heading towards Saint Anne’s a guard wagon rolled past him, steam rising from the lead horse’s nose in the biting cold. Harold hoped they did not see him. They did not stop and as soon as the coach rattled past, Harold quickened his step almost breaking into a run.

  The cobblestones slid past underfoot like waves on the ocean. The city was just starting to wake up and Harold jogged past families dressed in their best as they headed off to morning mass. It did not dawn on him until he was halfway to Saint Anne’s with his legs ready to buckle under him that there would be a sermon on when he got there. Harold would not be able to rush in and confront Paul. He would have to wait at the back or he would risk being lynched by devout Sacellumists. The cold was starting to sting and Harold felt the goose-bumps spreading up and down his arms so he quickened his pace to a sprint. His legs complained even more and his chest started to wheeze but it kept him warm or less cold at least.

  A strong wind blew across Celebration Square as Harold turned the corner into the Common Road. The granite statues that had been put back up during William’s lordship looked black, and the pigeons that normally defaced them, hid below the legs of the sculptures trying to keep out of the worst of the weather. The rain was starting to ease, but it was so damnably cold Harold was worried his shirt would actually freeze to his back. Harold did not want to go the same way as his father and just hoped that with all the bad luck he had been having, he was due some good and would avoid the flu. By the time he got to the fence that he Harold had consumed had burnt from his system but his legs were still wobbly and he leant against a metal fence to hold himself up while he caught his breath.

  Harold could hear the sound of singing from inside and could tell the service was underway. He had not had the chance to take in the beauty of the church on his last visit, his mind being preoccupied by the weight of his father’s casket resting on his shoulder. Panting for breath, Harold spared himself a moment to take in the splendour. Three distinct sections made up the church itself. The left section was a tall pointed building with a large square base and contained a grand, stained glass window showing pictures of religious idols. Below the window, a pure white plastered arch that masked the doorway inside. The central section was a smaller version of the last with a white arch and two small stained windows. It looked, to his mind, like a child stood next to its father and Harold wondered if the architect had planned it like that. The huge spire on the right climbed skywards and Harold could just make out the cross on its top. The church was huge and had taken years to complete. They had started building Saint Anne’s in the year 107ab and construction was still ongoing periodically as the numbers of the faithful Sacellum seemed to grow in the city. It was a massive structure and had taken hundreds of people to construct the huge stone towers even with the strange machines borrowed from the Dwarves. It was the biggest buildi
ng erected since the Dragon overlords were pushed from the city, and rivalled the Handson castle. It should have taken centuries for the cathedral sized church to be built, but had been done in only decades. This made Harold wonder just what splendour the Dwarves had hidden in the deep roads of the under dark away from the eyes of humans if their machines could create things like this so swiftly.

  Sliding open the gate, which creaked with the effort, Harold made his way to the large arch and slipped through the door, scuttling like a scared crab as he made his way across the chequered floor to the back pew. It was empty as were many of the other seats in the nave of the church. Harold guessed the foul weather had kept all but the most devout at home. Reverend Paul Augustus led the sermon from the front of the church, backed by another collection of four stained glass windows. The light shining behind him gave him a glowing halo even in the grim weather. Harold sat and listened all the way through the sermon, listening to how wonderful this creator god was. It annoyed him. It’s not that Harold didn’t believe in the golden city in the sky or disagree with the monks; after all, it was them who would, if anyone did, push the demons back from the world. What annoyed Harold was that with everything that had been happening to him, how could he be so wonderful, this creator god who steered their fates? As angry with the creator as Harold was at the end of the sermon, when it was time to pray, he found himself down on one knee. Harold prayed that he would make it through the day. He prayed that his mother would find the strength to deal with her loss, and, mostly, Harold prayed for Muriel.

  “ Atone thee creator.” Harold said in chorus with everyone else to end the prayer and he hoped that if there really was an all powerful being he heard his wishes. Harold watched as Reverend Paul made his escape behind the curtain that led down into the catacombs with the same haste as he had tried during his father’s funeral. Harold waited as the crowds left slowly one by one, keeping his head bent as if he was still praying and not wanting to draw attention. For someone who, only a week before, had been a tailor’s son and someone no one would have recognised, Harold was learning fast about what it took to survive in this new world of infamy that had opened up to him.

  When the last straggler was gone and the door shut behind them, Harold began tiptoeing towards the curtain, pressing his feet down as softly as he could against the stone floor. Harold tried to stay on the deep red carpet to deaden the sound. He wanted to catch Paul unaware, so he could see what he was doing down there. Pushing past the curtains Harold was thankful to see that the wooden door at the head of the stairs was ajar and he knelt beside it gazing down into the darkness. At the foot of the stairs Harold could see two coffins against which was propped a table. Harold wondered how the old man was able to hop over them each time he came down there. Surely his old bones should have disintegrated under the effort. Then Harold saw something which sickened him. Sitting deep in the shadows was Paul Augustus and one of the residents of the catacombs. It was his father’s body and that bastard was biting it. Harold had seen William do the same to the guard officers the night he had escaped. Harold gave up his hiding place and tossed the door aside, making a rapid descent and almost losing his footing more than once on the herbs that were scattered on the steps. Reverend Paul dropped Harold’s father to the floor and turned to face him.

  “Harold! How wonderful of you to join us. We were just having lunch.” Paul said smiling with blood soaked teeth.

  “Screw you, priest.” Harold bellowed as he clambered over the

  coffins, kicking the table aside. It was out of character for him but his

  anger turned to fury, and Harold wanted to kill him there and then.

  Harold forgot that he came for answers, to find out what William was.

  None of that mattered in the light of his father being desecrated like

  that. Harold wanted to see the priest dead. He slammed his foot down

  on the leg of the table, breaking it free from the frame. He was tired and

  it took a lot of effort but, with his blood boiling, his muscles pulled

  tight with the surge of power felt only in the purest moments of rage.

  The broken leg in his hand, Harold made his way towards Paul. His

  mouth was dry and his heart beat faster than it ever had before in his

  life.

  “Now, my child, let’s not do anything hasty.” Paul said. Harold was

  too enraged to argue back. He could not shake the image of his father’s

  lifeless corpse sullied in such a way, when they had lowered his father’s

  body down the day before it was to rest forever with his lost kin, not to feed some crazed old priest. “Harold. I think I owe you some answers.” Paul continued, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief he pulled from his

  robes.

  “Too right you do old man and once I have them I intend to kill you.”

  Harold said, tightening his grip on the table leg. The whole time Muriel

  and he had been planning to kill William, Harold had no idea if he had

  it in him to kill someone, but standing there in front of Paul, Harold

  had no doubt in his intentions.

  “I’ve come to know a lot about you, Harold. I know about the Queens. I

  know how you got blamed.”

  “Is that why you called O’Brien’s boys here, to tell them of my innocence?”

  Harold said, hoping to surprise Paul that he knew the priest had

  involvement with the O’Brien’s and now, after seeing him feed on the

  blood of his father, Harold knew Paul was no different to the beast

  William.

  Paul answered quickly and calmly. “No, course not, I didn’t even

  know about you until they came here. I called them here to kill William. You see, he

  was a mistake of mine. The O’Brien’s made me aware of your involvement and I

  could not risk you ruining all of this. So I ordered them to kill you too.” The priest’s

  honesty shocked Harold and he found himself looking around the

  room while trying to think of what he wanted to say back. Harold

  noticed an opening in the wall where a coffin would once have rested.

  There was a pillow just inside of it and huge amounts of the herbs that

  coated the stairs. Harold guessed that Paul had been sleeping there and

  using what knowledge he had gained from reading the occult books of

  mages and how they had used garlic and other plants in protective

  wards Harold guessed that hideaway would have been to protect the

  priest before his change.

  “He was a mistake? What do you mean a mistake?” Harold asked

  holding the table leg out in front of him more for protection than in

  anger now.

  “It’s a long story, you sure you and your lady friend have the time? I mean

  while you’re here she is all alone.” Paul said trying to anger him. He wanted

  him to make a move, to lunge at him.

  “Don’t you dare threaten Muriel, priest.” Harold said. “I’m not, but William is still out there. He knows about you, too. You

  see, we share the same memories. All of us do. We are more than you could imagine.”

  Paul said and this was the first time Harold heard about the shared,

  hive mind of the Rakta Ishvara.

  “What are you on about, old man?” Harold said, taking another

  look around the cold damp room. The brickwork changed halfway down the wall and even with his limited knowledge of the lore of Neeskmouth, Harold could tell the catacombs had broken into the old

  labyrinth below the city.

  “You’re really not the brightest of young men, are you?” Paul said. “You

  look at me as evil. I can see that in your eyes, but you are wrong. You do not realise

  the power the Rakta Ishvara, the blood god, can give you. I’ve learnt how to
control

  it. The leaves you see around here stop it taking total control.” Paul said, turning

  to point around the catacombs. It was at that moment Harold took his

  chance, swinging the table leg as hard as he could at Paul’s head. It

  never made it. Paul’s movement was lightening fast and he splintered

  the leg with a sideward swipe.

  “You fool of a boy. Don’t let my looks deceive you. You cannot win. It is

  only by my restraint that you still breathe.” Paul spat at Harold with venom.

  The lunge had taken him past Paul and Paul was now blocking his

  escape back up the stairs. Harold could see the mass on Paul’s chest

  starting to pulsate. It was almost instinctive on his part, like the jack

  rabbit to dart into its burrow at the sight of a hawk’s shadow. Harold

  dropped the shattered stick to the floor and darted into the wall

  opening. Harold hoped that if Paul really had been using it to sleep

  safely without fear from William then the herbs would keep Paul at bay

  now too. It worked as Paul skulked back and forth keeping off the

  mass of leaves. Harold was lucky.

  “It seems you are not as stupid as you look. You have an understanding

  of the old magic’s it seems. It matters little though for you sadly Harold. I might not

  be able to risk touching so many Abrus leaves but I am not going anywhere. Let us

  see how long you can stay in there, shall we? Maybe me and your father could get back

  to dinner while you watch?” Paul disappeared from Harold’s line of sight.

  He was right though, Harold could not stay in there forever. Harold

  closed his eyes and pressed his hands over his ears trying to block out

  the sucking sound as Paul returned to feeding on his father’s corpse.

  The mention of the old magic’s made Harold wonder if these beasts