A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Read online

  As Harold started to lower himself down he couldn’t help but notice that, although he might not be an expert on spirits, the smell down there was so potent that it had to be more than just one drum that had split. The cellar was dark and Harold didn’t fancy staying in it longer than needed. He took only a few moments to look around and it was obvious that whatever had broken must have been cleared up. There was no broken debris on the floor at all, only an ankle deep puddle of liquid. Harold could not see any splintered wood or signs that one of the kegs, barrels, or any other container had leaked. It almost seemed like every keg had been emptied on purpose. Harold thought about mentioning it to O’Brien once he’d loaded the new kegs in. If someone was emptying alcohol into the cellar on purpose then O’Brien should look into it. Harold pulled himself back onto the street, glad of the fresher air. As he begun to tie the rope around the barrel and slowly ushered it towards the opening, a sudden small flash from below lit a figure in silhouette. Harold could see clearly that it had not been a rat that he’d heard down below but it was in fact someone watching him. Harold had barely enough time to realise that whoever it was had just lit a match before a wall of heat forced him to turn his back to the cellar door barely giving him time to scamper out. Another much brighter flash shot into the air sweeping him clean off his feet as the fumes caught ablaze.

  Time froze, and for what seemed to him like a lifetime, Harold sailed through the air in the explosion before he came crashing down into the centre of the street, barely missing the cart that held the rest of his workload. The horses fled in fear of the sudden noise, sending loose barrels rolling towards the river’s edge. Dazed and confused, his breath stolen from his lungs, all Harold could do was lay there and watch as the flames danced their very own Drow jig to O'Brien’s song. The fire did not dwindle in the slightest as it spread, the blaze feeding on the fuels inside. The whisky, rum, and ales gave it speed as it riddled the aged woodwork of the walls. Flames leapt out of the small hatch with burning fingers that searched for a way to escape. As one of these long red fingers wrapped around the barrel that Harold had held in his arms only moments before, it shot into the air before exploding and showering down burning timbers setting the roof ablaze. Within seconds, the song inside the Queens stopped and screams echoed out. Harold could see from his resting place in the now frozen street that the flames had made it to the door before the first person could escape. Smoke poured out from the doorframe like rivers carving their way through the sky. The inside of the tavern echoed with the explosions as more kegs, barrels and bottles joined the massacre from the ground floor. The explosions so loud caused Harold’s hearing to vanish, replaced with a continuous whistle. Cries faded as smoke pushed its way out of the second-storey window. The music had gone, the singers dead yet the flames danced on. His head was sore and pounding from his flight and Harold could feel himself begin to lose consciousness. Harold raised his hand shakily to his bleeding forehead where some of the debris must have hit him. His body shook and Harold felt cold even through all the heat. Shock filled every pore in his body, a coppery taste of blood in his throat, and he was sure he could feel death calling to him. The horror that was unravelling in front of him became little more than a dream as his eyes lost focus and whitened. The sound of the sea and the sight of brilliant sandy beaches filled his mind. Falling in between the dream and the living nightmare, Harold swore just before his head fell back against the cobbles, that he had seen a man crawl from the flaming hatch in the street. His clothing still smouldered and his flesh was bright red like a lobster, yet Harold heard no yells of pain. He turned and gazed at him, this stranger’s flesh blistered and raw, hung from him like a decaying corpse. The zombie like vision, something out of a nightmare, took to running off away from the blaze leaving Harold to his fate.

  Interlude: Small eyes often see more The flames had barely missed him as Dante had darted into the hole just below the bucket that had been left at the eastern corner of the cellar for weeks. The little hairs that had once been on his tail were singed in the heat and the smell of burnt hair followed him down into the cold dampness of the crack that ran between the brickwork all the way to the sewers. Dante had crawled up through the same crack just a week before, on the hopes of finding something tasty to eat, and thought he’d struck gold with all the fine meats and bread and cheese that had been left out once the tall ones left the pub at night. He had got used to the odd interruption as one of the Drow came down to carry up a keg back into the bar. For the most part they didn’t notice him as long as he stayed still but if they did, they’d just throw something at him, but Dante just darted under the shelves and vanished until they were gone. It was still safer than on the streets with the rat catchers and there was no sign of a cat to be found within the Queens. Dante had planned to grow old and fat there. Maybe start a family of his own, but as the smoke made its way down behind him as he escaped, it was clear that was not going to happen. Dante was a renegade rodent; in so much that he had jumped ship away from his flee ridden relations in search of a better life on dry land. Life on the boardwalk by the ships hadn’t been easy and the local black rat population had chased him further into the city and into the path of the rat catchers. It had been that human that had taken away his safe haven beneath the Queens. Something had smelt different about the one that had set the fire. All humans smelt dirty, a mix between souring milk and lustful regret, but the one that started the fire smelt like soiled meat. He smelt more like the corpses some of the less refined rodents chose to feast upon in the darkest alleyways of the harbour. There was the way he moved to. Dante has seen the bipeds walking funny if they smelled of the spirits but that one didn’t smell like he’d consumed any, and yet he still moved like his actions were laboured. Some of the sailors on the Cassandra had moved in a similar way after consuming a keg of dark black rum brought in from the Green Stone Isles, Dante’s homeland. Even when the tall and presumably walking dead, humanoid had almost stood on Dante, he hadn’t seemed to notice him. Dante had never known a creature with two legs not try to kick him or scream when they saw him. It was strange really why they seemed so scared of Dante. He was around the size of their feet, and wanted nothing more than a quiet life somewhere warm with enough food to feed his fluff covered belly, but for some reason all humans hated him. That was aside from the fire-starter; he was different, he oblivious as if in a dream. So strong too; he hadn’t needed a hammer to break the kegs like the rest of the humans that came into the cellar. He’d done it with his hands. Dante had barely managed to avoid getting wet as he clambered up onto the loose cobblestone slab next to the bucket he’d made his escape near. The weird smelling one let the alcohol poor out over the floor while he just stood there motionlessly, staring off straight ahead like he was entranced. Dante had seen the patrons upstairs do the same from time to time, the odd tankard being spilt onto the floor but that normally sparked off a brawl, and he couldn’t understand what the human was doing down here in his home. Dante would remember that one’s smell. He was more dangerous than the rest. Dante didn’t know why but his nose just told him to stick clear of that one. He would do his best to avoid ever coming across his smell as he made his way back to the harbour in the hopes his ship was back docked with his kin at the wharf. The pickings aboard the Cassandra weren’t as nice as the Queens, but at least it was safe. The ship’s old tom cat was as likely to catch a rat as he was to take a bath. The fire was the final straw that sent Dante heading home.

  Chapter 2: Reverend Paul Augustus Time is a funny old thing. Even with all the magic that swirled around Valadfar like freshly splashed milk into a mug of black coffee, there had been very few mages that had ever managed to travel through time. This was a shame, for had Harold known earlier his part, and those of others in the acts that were to come, he could have stopped so many deaths. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Harold, just as many others, had passed Saint Anne’s chapel so many times in his life. His father’s tailors had used to deliver repaired froc
ks there for the priest occasionally. It was also the place his parents married shortly after its construction was complete in 112ab. It held some happy memories for his family, but Harold knew little else that had gone on there, as few who were not part of the inner Sacellum did and his family, although religious, were far from devout. The massive stone and brick churches were a new thing for the city; they had started sprouting up a few years after the war when the Brilanka monks first came to Neeskmouth. It seemed they were integral for the Sacellum religion and their priests to spread the belief through the city. In the years after Malcolm Benedict took the seat as governor of the city, the old religions were all but banished. With the old teachings fading in book burning, Harold’s mother and father remarried under the eyes of the great creator, the god of the Sacellum religion, in fear that they would not be allowed into the holy city of gold when they died, if they did not. It was fear mongering like that which had allowed the Brilanka monks to take over almost every position of power within the city in less than two decades. It gave them access to more of the city’s funds than any other guild. With their riches they built massive structures to impose their beliefs even further. Saint Anne’s was by far the biggest and had taken twenty one years to complete. A blink of the eye compared to what it would have taken before the Dwarfen machines with their steam driven belts had been released from the mountains. It had been built in stages, first as a small stone church, and wings and floors had been added as the flock that congregated grew. It now stood taller than any other building in the city aside from the castle, which once belonged to the royalty of Neeskmouth and now served as the governmental halls. It was said that the foundations for Saint Anne’s had been dug so deep that they broke into the catacombs and the hidden labyrinth that ran below the city. The plot of earth it sat on was almost as spacious as Handson Castle and showed the true power in the city had shifted from the once powerful royal line of the Handson’s to that of the Brilanka monks. The fear of the demons that the battle with the dragons had brought into the world fuelled the religions growth. It was this fear, and this need of the presence of something greater than the standing army to face them, which led to the humble beginnings of Saint Anne’s to turn into the stone gargantuan it was today. This fear also pushed many of the priests past the boundaries of normal men. They had begun to be seen as demigods themselves and people begun to follow their word as gospel, despite the fact that behind the mask of their religion they were merely normal men and women, and some with just as dark a secret as any dockyard thug. It was one such secret that lead to the fire at the Queens that had changed Harold’s life for good.

  It was already dark before Reverend Paul Augustus made it home from Saint Anne’s. The walk from Common Road south of Celebration Square was too long for his liking and made all the worse by the chill to the air. The cold got into his bones and set off his damnable arthritis. That, mixed with the fact he had to battle past the masses of people that cluttered the streets, put Paul into a foul mood. His knee ached but he refused to show his weakness and struggled on without the aid of a cane. They were for old and feeble men and Paul refused to be either. He thought that the leeches he kept at home would help, but at that time he still needed to do more experiments to make them safe first. He was not a man of science but was doing the best he could to learn the secrets they held. Paul slipped off his collar as he turned the corner from Common Road into Monks Walk. The newly paved and constructed Monks Walk had been built with small basic accommodation to house the rapid influx of monks and priests from the order that Paul was part of. His home marked the very eastern edge of Neeskmouth, and few travelled the path that curled back in to join the city again by the canals. He turned into the last dark alley before he reached his front door. It was a place where he could finally relax. Although the small white collar had been keeping Paul’s neck warm in the cold breeze, he hated people pestering him with ‘Father’ this and ‘Father’ that. He was always glad when he was almost home where he could remove it. The grace and majesty of the church would captivate most but Paul Augustus had grown bored of its beauty some time ago and now he had started to find distain in himself while he wore the marks of his office. If anyone had asked, he could have pinpointed the moment his faith had left him. It was during his trip through the Eastern Empire. He had been a missionary, trying to pass the word of the saviour to the uneducated of the human provinces, but shortly after arriving in the Green Stone Isles, his zeal for God had left him. The memories of the place flooded over Paul, engulfing him in a past he wished he could forget. Leaning against the wall of his house Paul Augustus faltered. He forced his mind to focus, and physically shook the graphic memories from his head. He continued onwards.

  ‘God damn it. ’ He muttered under his breath with a wheeze. His stomach churned over almost forcing him to arch forward. Biting down hard, he swallowed the feeling deep within until it fell into the pit of his stomach. The images faded from his mind but not completely – they never left him completely. No man could forget the imagery of the sacrifices. How could the word of Sacellum be true if the freedom of man could lead to such vile and violent acts? The whole teaching of the Brilanka monks was to prevent the debortuary of the demon world spilling into Valadfar but if men could do such horrible things without the sway of dark magic, then what meaning had his life had? Breathing heavily, Paul gazed around the poorly lit alley hoping no one had heard his outburst. A faint smile slid across his lips when he found he was alone, just how he liked it. Since returning to Neeskmouth, a year ago, he had grown to love being alone. With no one around to pester him, he could give up the act, stop playing the part of the priest, and finally relax. His clammy hands still shaking, white at the knuckle, Paul hunted through his black clothing for the familiar coolness of the copper keys that worked the lock.

  The house he stood outside was an absolute contrast to the grandeur of Saint Anne’s. There was no grand dome above the doorway, no tower reaching to the very heavens. The windows did not show-off the colours so rich and vivid that they never left the mind. There was not one idol to his God illuminating the dark alley. Instead it was a simply built multi-storey hovel. It was the home supplied by the church for Paul. It was hidden away behind the huge stone giants that blocked out the skyline in an alley littered with filth of every kind. Paul had chosen to have the dull scent of the smog, darkness and cobbles over the solitude of the Brilanka Isle, because here he could continue his work unquestioned. There might have been dead animals cluttering the gutters, and rats the size of small dogs, scurrying around, yet, this was his favourite place to be. Paul did not own the whole house but merely one room inside. The others were full of dissidents and drug addicts.

  As Neeskmouth had grown and prospered the common man had found he had more money to spend, more gold to flash in taverns, and spend on herbs imported into the city. This had started a plague that even the wise lord William had not been prepared for and scores of people had started toppling into decay at the wooden edges of the city. It gave the Brilanka monks more sway as they through false modesty gave a home to those that could not home themselves. The main door slid open on rusted hinges. It was made of rotten wood, and the corridor behind it was filled with damp. It was more than a little cold and unwelcoming. Inside doors lined every few feet of wall space. It was a hostel for the poor and smelled of old stew. It was not much of an improvement from the smog filled air outside, but it was what Paul called home. The sound of shouting echoed from some far off room. No doubt another couple arguing, thought Paul. He heard a thud and then the quiet murmur of a woman crying.

  It seemed the glory days of Neeskmouth were coming to a close. The brutality of the Iron Giants becoming more prominent as the native Neeskmouthains numbers dwindled. Paul sealed the outside world away with the click of the latch and made his way to his own room. Once inside, Reverend Paul Augustus closed and bolted the door. One could never be too careful. He slid the second latch into place. There was a thud on the wall behind
him as the drunken husband stormed out into the corridor before crashing against the wall. Paul sighed as he dropped his keys onto a small and beaten table close to his front door and reached for the matches he always kept there. They had been sold to him by a match-girl from one of the flats upstairs. She was an orphan now. Her father had been one of the unlucky souls who had to guard the crater out by Briers Hill. In one of the uncommon appearances of the shadow demons his life had been taken. The mother who had been unable to maintain the rent on the family home had moved into the building shortly after. The very next winter she had fallen sick with the flu and succumbed to the bitter cold. Paul did what he could for the girl, bringing her food from the church donations and buying her matches whenever he had the coin to spare. Although Paul had seen and done things that would curse a man to an eternity in hell, he was a good man and he had a good heart, before he was changed by the coming darkness, desperation can lead even the most righteous down the wrong paths.

  With a sharp flick against the uneven brickwork, the match illuminated the one small room that Paul called home. Paul savoured the warmth the match gave off in his hands before limping forward. Cupping the small flame as he went, he passed the mess of books and manuscripts that littered the floor. They had cobwebs coating them and small black pellets that Paul guessed were rat droppings. He had no idea how long ago it was he had tidied the room, but then it didn’t matter as no one came to visit him anymore, he had made sure of that. Stepping over a torn copy of chorus songs, Paul looked for the darker shadow in the centre of the dull room, one he knew to be his table. On it was the remaining stub of a candle. He couldn’t be bothered travelling to the market to get a new one, not now, not while he still had work to do. People may find out what he was working on and he couldn’t have that. Paul’s weakened mind was riddled with echoes of paranoia. He skulked across the lonely room and married the match to the wick. The glow from the candle was reborn, pushing back the remaining darkness.