A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Read online

  The visitor was full of confidence. The only other people Harold had seen that cocky were the constables. As he got closer, Harold began to make out the blue of his uniform, confirming his suspicions that it was indeed the law and Harold wondered what a constable would want with him. His uniform was impressive. It had huge brass buckles all along its front and buttons that, with a little imagination, could have been bronze ashtrays. It was neat, pressed, and still dry. His visitor must have arrived by coach otherwise he would be sopping wet from the rain which Harold could hear was still clashing against the window. The officer wore a full top hat that nestled against his huge bushy sideburns which he removed and tucked under his arm as he drew close to Harold’s bed, but not before Harold noticed the bronzed marking embossed in it. It showed him to be a city guard. Harold thought that you could bet your day’s takings that the constable was corrupt and no doubt on O’Brien’s pay; they all were.

  “Good, you’re awake. I had half expected to have to sit around and entertain the nurses.” The officer jested. “My name is Inspector Francis Fraser, and I‘d like to ask you a few questions, my lad.” He said to Harold in a voice that was deep and dry showing an accent foreign to the city. There were too many hints of southern Neeska blood chiselled into every syllable for him to be able to hide his lineage, but strangely he still tried. As much as he attempted to mask his accent, his bright orange hair, which grew down through the slug-like sideburns into a full beard, gave his true heritage away. The inspector was from southern blood, no doubt from Stratholme and Harold guessed he hid it to allow himself to progress in force. Most people in the city were still holding a grudge against the kingdom of Stratholme because they did not send aid during the Dragon’s Blight, it did not matter to most that they were being ravaged by a plague that threatened the very existence of the city at the time. A rounded fat face and a reddened nose showed signs of heavy drinking and it was not until he sat down on the end of his bed that Harold noticed the band the officer wore around his wrist marking him as a high-ranking commander. Francis was stocky and from the scarred knuckles, Harold knew that he was a man that got the answers he wanted. Harold did wonder at the time if he was the type of man who joined the guard force for the good of the city, or if he was just another crook that had joined to abuse the laws for his own benefit. The inspector coughed abruptly, and it was only then Harold realised he had not replied for some time. Harold guessed the concussion made his daydreaming habit even worse. He had been fortunate to have the tendency, as had Harold not been daydreaming at the Queens, he might have been quicker loading that barrel down, and have actually been in the cellar when it went up in flames. His heart sank as Harold realised that at some point the O'Brien’s boys would also be in to see him. O'Brien no doubt had died in the fire and they would be out for the blood of whoever started it. Harold was probably the only witness still breathing. That must be why the inspector was with him but once he left the hospital Harold would be at their mercy, all he could hope was that he was discharged before O'Brien’s gang found out where he was being treated.

  “Let us get a few things straight shall we? ” The inspector continued ignoring Harold’s lack of reply. “William Boatswain might have let the guards go soft, but he isn’t in power anymore. So how about you give me your name and you get to leave here with only the bruises you came in with?” Francis said, hinting at his allegiance to Malcolm Benedict. The city had been torn in two ever since William was superseded in government. Harold truly believed that if the people of Neeskmouth did not so strongly fear another long and drawn out war, like the one at the turn of the century, then the tension between the religious and the common man would have lead to bloodshed. Those loyal to the extremist Sacellum Malcolm and those who, like Harold, wanted William back in power.

  “Sorry. My name is Harry Spinks, son of James Spinks, tailor of East Street.” Harold replied having no idea why he automatically introduced his father’s name. He guessed it was to show that he came from a good family and was not the type to go setting fires.

  “Not a Pole is you then, boy?” Francis asked unexpectedly. Harold waited for a second to see if it was some kind of inside joke, but his face remained unchanged behind the walrus moustache.

  “No, sir” Harold answered. The question annoyed him. The Poles had been the name given to the army of the Iron Giants when they invaded the city. They only carried that name during times of war and they now worked hard for what they had, though you could see in Francis’ eyes that he did not think they deserved it. Harold’s annoyance was ignored by the inspector as he continued to scribble into his notebook as he spoke.

  “You saw the fire at the Queens Tavern earlier tonight. In fact there are reports that you were seen to be loading things into the tavern where the fire started, would you like to give me your account of what happened, or shall I just get the cuffs on you now?” Francis spat out in a mouthful, seemingly without the need to breathe. He obviously thought Harold had done it and was praying Harold was of Iron Giant descendent as it would have been so much easier for him to pass the blame onto him, without any questions from his superiors if Harold was. The law was so corrupt that if you were of any race but Brilankan – home of the monks and the current ruling leader - decent laws, such as a fair trial, did not apply, and they could have him in the cells by morning, such was the fear of the demons. “Well, I know you’re not deaf and dumb so answer me, boy.” Francis said with spittle forming on his lip. Harold could see the anger growing inside the inspector. He tried to remember the fire, but the details caused him to shake again. The fear had left his mind for a while but it seems it had not left his body, his fingers trembled and Harold could feel his mouth dry even more, if that was possible.

  “Where am I?” Harold croaked, ignoring the question for now. Harold had a few of his own he needed answering first and felt he could get away with pushing the inspectors temper a little more.

  “You’re in Saint Bartholomew, the Drow hospital just off Duck Street if you have to know. Though, if you don’t give me an answer to my damn question now, you’ll be out of here and off to a rat infested cell before you can call your bloody mother to wipe your snotty nose lad.” Francis said and the angrier he got the more the almost musical tone of his southern voice came through.

  “I was loading the kegs into the cellar as always, when I smelt spirits-” Harold replied carefully.

  “Well, I should hope you bloody would or there’d be little point putting the

  kegs in there?” The inspector interrupted and Harold supposed he had a

  point. The kegs did always smell of alcohol but never as strong as that

  night. “Get to the bit where you set the fire.” Frances said seemingly growing

  bored of listening already. Harold didn’t answer straight away because

  his attention was snapped elsewhere as, in the distance beyond the

  ward; he could hear a Drow accent. It was faint but could just be heard

  over the whistling wind. That was all he needed. Harold had the law

  trying to slap him in irons and O'Brien’s gang on their way to gut him.

  As much as Harold wanted the inspector gone, he knew he had to keep

  him there. Inspector Fraser’s humour was less painful than what would

  happen to him if O’Brien’s gang even suspected Harold had started the

  fire.

  “Ok, you really want to know what I saw. I’ll tell you then.” Harold

  said still barely able to believe it himself. “The place stunk of spirits, More’n

  normal. As I was about to lower myself down to check for a broken drum or

  something then I saw someone inside the cellar light a match.” Harold said trying

  hard to fight through the fog inside his head and focus on the

  memories of that night. It sounded mad to him even as Harold said it.

  Someone had burnt themselves for no other reason than to torch the

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sp; tavern and then crawled out of the fire and ran away. Harold guessed it

  could have been a mage that had somehow protected themselves from

  the flames, but then why use the match when they could have cast a

  spell from a safe distance away? It didn’t make any sense. Harold

  doubted anyone else saw the man either as he had darted off in the

  panic. Harold was the obvious suspect so he had to tell the whole story

  in the hope that Francis would believe him. “I was tossed into the street by

  the blast. It was then I saw him crawl out from the wreckage. I recognised the person

  from a newspaper article. The guy was supposed to have been killed about two weeks

  ago, but it was definitely him.” Harold said and instantly felt stupid. There

  was no way it could be him. Harold didn’t know much about magic, but

  even necromancers would have had trouble controlling the dead the

  way Harold saw the burning man run, but it was definitely the man he had read about. The more Harold thought about it the more he was

  sure.

  “So, let him get this cock and bull right. You want me to believe you did

  not start the fire. It was started by a dead man? He came back to life somehow and

  set fire to this pub. Then, and let him be totally sure of this, he crawled out from the

  burning building in which twenty people died and ran off down the street?” Francis

  said and Harold noticed the inspector had stopped taking notes. “Yes, that’s about it.” Harold said lamely. He had seen it happen

  and it seemed like madness even to him, so how could he expect

  anyone else to believe him? Francis was waiting for more from him but

  Harold had nothing to give. The awkward silence went on for what

  seemed like eternity before the door to the ward opened, swinging on

  its hinges, until it bounced off the wall with a thud that caused one of

  the nurse’s hats to fall to the floor. In walked two dark skinned Drow,

  both of them short and in almost matching brown overcoats that

  reached down to their knees. They wore similar red shoes to Harold’s

  own, though not as nicely cut. An odd thing to notice, but even in his

  weakened state Harold noticed the single beading stitches which

  showed their shoes were cheaply made, Harold guessed it was the tailor

  in him. Even in the dark Harold noticed the pair’s features. They both

  had curly dark hair that bounced as they walked and squashed noses no

  doubt from countless drunken brawls. A glint in their eyes showed they

  owned the room. The one on the right had a limp, and Harold noticed

  his hands were shaking slightly, a sign of the scurvy no doubt caught

  from one of their own pinch pricks. Something told him that as small

  as these men were, they could handle themselves. Harold knew by their

  faces they were O'Brien’s boys, in every sense of the word. They were

  not just a couple of his gang but his two sons. Harold had seen them at

  the Queens before. They eyed the guard inspector at the end of his bed

  and his breath froze as Harold saw one of them reach into his chest

  pocket.

  “Please god not a crossbow.” Harold remembered whispering to

  himself. If they had even the slightest likeness to their father’s

  personality then they were dealing with a couple of psychopaths. They

  were twins that O'Brien had fathered with one of his girls back when he

  first took over from his father. It was almost like a lineage for the

  O’Brien’s as every one of them for as far back as the first ship docked

  in the city had ended up having a child with the first girl he signed up to

  work for the family. Harold was thankful to see that it was not a

  weapon that came out from the recesses of the brown-shagged jacket.

  Instead it was a wedge of pound notes tied together with string. It was more money than his tailors would earn in a month. The one holding

  the money chucked it at Inspector Fraser before speaking. “There is a mother-hen there, copper top, why don’t you go buy yourself a

  drink or a brass tart and forget you seen us?” O’Brien’s son said, his Drow

  accent strong even though they had probably never even seen Lashkar

  Gah, their homeland. Inspector Fraser scooped up the money, before

  turning to Harold. He was on their payroll that was all Harold needed. “I’ll be back to talk to you later boy.” He said. “Don’t hurt him too

  badly, lads. I need to take him in alive.” Francis said as he pushed his hat

  back on his head and shooting Harold a smile.

  “Slimy bastard.” Harold had wanted to say but he was far too

  scared to. It was no wonder no one had any respect for city guards with

  so many of them being on the payroll of the criminal families. The door

  clicked closed as the inspector left without another word. It was just

  the two O'Brien boys and Harold. As the two goons took a final glance

  into the corridor to make sure they would not be interrupted, Harold

  closed his eyes asking himself again why he had not been late earlier

  that night.

  Chapter 4: Restless Dreams Paul Augustus’s dreams were plagued by the secrets he held. He lay in bed with the fireplace out regardless of the cold. The darkness that hung like a smothering blanket over the room comforted him and helped to block everything out. Even over the cold’s waking grasp the urge to block out the waking world won over and he sought out absolute black. The rain stopped for a short time as the clouds moved on and with the sky clear the temperature was falling fast. There would be snow by morning, not that Paul could see any of this from his windowless room. He tossed and turned below the sheepskin blanket. He knew his knee would lock and that he would suffer the agony that came with arthritis if he didn’t keep warm, but the shadows were the only thing that kept the dreams at bay, so it was worth the pain. He had to hurry up and finish his tests. The experiments he had been carrying out on prostitutes had been going well, that was until that bloody Drow swine O’Brien had got involved. Paul fell asleep thinking on the Drow’s involvement. Exhaustion finally won but his mind continued on its trail of thought back through the last few weeks. His eyes shut and the back of his eyelids made the perfect screen to show his dreams.

  It had all seemed so simple when Paul had set out. The catacombs under Saint Anne’s chapel had been empty for so long, the church was using it for storage. The rumours of them being haunted had been spread by Paul himself and meant the altar boys would never go down into the gloom. Capturing a pigeon from the street and letting it loose down there had been pure genius on his part, with the fluttering and crashing around it made sure the rumours had some substance. Once he was sure that no one would go down there it became the perfect place for him to work. The damp and cold of the underground tombs kept his failed experiments fresh and stopped them smelling too much of rot. The conditions, if not a little icy, were otherwise perfect for the leeches he had brought back from the east. Once the makeshift laboratory was set up the priest became, by his own admittance, a mad scientist.

  At the start he had tried using the leeches on animals that he had gathered from the streets. If anyone had noticed Paul as he walked into the church at night with a stray animal he would just tell them that it was the creator’s work. He relished in the foolishness of the average degenerate on the street. Because they feared the demons coming so much they could have caught him flogging a child and if he said it was the creator’s work, they would probably have joined in. He had tried attaching the leeches at the neck of the animal as he seen the mystics in the Dark Gulf do, but they d
rained the animals of blood too quickly. The process had killed them off before the parasite could cross into the animal. Paul was unsure of just what happened to make the changes take place, but whatever it was, it did not have time to take effect on such small creatures. After a number of failed experiments Paul found that one corner of the catacombs had turned into a pet cemetery. If anyone had braved coming down there then it would lead to too many questions. He found getting rid of the dead dogs easy. All he had to do was sneak them out into the gutter outside when there was a heavy rain. The citizens of Neeskmouth were so used to seeing rotting animals in the gutters after a strong downpour that no one would question a few more. If anything, it brought more prosperity to the area with an increase of rodents for the rat catchers to claim.

  The first tests on humans had proved a little more difficult though, as the corpses were harder to get rid of when experiments went wrong. Things improved when Paul found a loose slab on one of the sarcophagi. A couple of urchins from the street helped him open and clean it in return for a free forgiveness. This made the perfect place to drop the bodies as they would slide into the miles of hidden labyrinth below the city. This allowed Paul to progress at speed in his research. The frustration of what Paul had missed had almost driven him mad. It had taken five girls’ lives before he found the secrets in his notes that the herbs which hung around the neck of the town’s people, weakened the transition of the Rakta Ishvara, the blood god. These herbs poisoned the leech and killed them off before they could drain their victim fully. Not, however, before the toxin had entered the body and the change had started. Paul knew it was a toxin of some kind as only minutes after the leech fell from the neck of his subject, the veins in the area blackened and eventually the blackness seemed to spread to the eyes, at which point the subject generally died. It was on the night he had become impatient and taken two girls at once that things started to go wrong. He became greedy. The anticipation of mastering his technique forced him to make the mistake. Both girls had come willingly with his pound notes pressed tightly in their blouse, their young skin exposed down to the neck and the corsets working their magic, Basque styled they flowed down over the girls pale bosom. Their dresses looked to be made of cotton and had a decorative frill at the edge. The two girls were from somewhere in Lashkar Gar and chirped back and forth to each other in a language Paul did not understand. Their hair was messy and hung down in greased mats to their shoulders but they showed no sign of disease and that was enough for the experiments. Paul Augustus was no longer a celibate priest, he had forgone that teaching of Sacellum during his time in the Green Stone Isles and when he entered the catacombs he was already hard with excitement. As he led them down into the darkness, his hands caressed the poor girls. He tried to reach into their clothes with his lecherously old and wrinkled hands groped them as they walked. The two girls, although used to this sort of sordid ordeal, were made uncomfortable by the urgency of his need. They seemed to relax slightly in the dull light, after all it was cleaner than some of the places they had been forced to work a man, and at least they could relax in the knowledge a priest was unlikely to hit them. Paul was sure they noticed this was not in character for a priest, but for what he paid them, they did not seem to care. Paul had planned to just restrain the girls and attach the leeches, but seeing them in the dim candlelight had made his mind wander from his work. His God had stopped listening so long ago, who would notice or judge him if he were to sin? Therefore he did. He bedded both in the dank setting, deep under the streets where the girls were used to working. They both swarmed over the priest hoping to earn his favour for future visits for the wealth he offered. They touched him frantically, doing their best to please him. The pleasure was great but his mind never left the real reason they were there. As he grew close to climax, the faces of all the girls he had killed flashed across his mind but they did not halt his violent thrusts and hard grasps, his nails and teeth drawing blood. His orgasm came quickly, but not quick enough for the girls he soiled. Once it had passed, Paul rolled off the top of the young girl that had become his favourite. She was still panting below him as she wiped blood from the teeth marks on her bosom. His own breath was short but he had to move fast before they grew too eager to leave. The second girl, who had not come off quite as badly, was already getting dressed. Paul knew he would have to get her first. He reached for the tongs on the side table and pulled open the water filled jar. He reached down inside it and pulled out the large black mass that shook itself out of a coil. The size of the leech still amazed him, its full length around a foot long. The dressed prostitute turned to look at Paul and went to scream as she saw him come at her with tongs outstretched. It was too late as Paul grabbed her around the mouth. He may have been old but he was not yet completely feeble. He pushed the leech against her neck and it attached itself instantly. Her struggling stopped quickly as the pain paralysed her. The priest went back to the table and delved into the jar again clutching another leech in his tongs. As he turned, he noticed that the girl on the floor had moved quicker than he had expected. She had run for the door in tears leaving her friend behind. Being nude, as shameful as it was, was not the be all and end all for the prostitute. After a life of servicing men, she had grown used to her bareness. Paul took a step towards the door with his anger rising in him but it was cold down there and he could not give chase. His arthritis-ridden knee ached and he knew it would lock if he tried. As he looked down he could see the assault on the first woman had left her lying, eyes closed, on the floor. The leech’s toxin was already sedating its prey. Paul reached for the table once more and let a scattering of dry leaves fall onto the girl’s body. It would stop her dying, he hoped. He looked back at the now open doorway into the main church. Paul thought about following the girl but decided that it did not matter that one girl had escaped, his experiments were too important and the guard would not believe her anyway. It did mean he would have to work quickly to remove the bodies however. Such an inconvenience to his work but that was the benefit of doing his experiments from the chapel as it allowed for plenty of graves to use.