A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Read online

  “So you just move in then lady?” The young match girl Rose said to the old woman who had been struggling in with a bag thrown over her hunched shoulders.

  “ Lady, I’m no lady my girl. Call me Granny most people do, but yes dear sadly I have moved in.” Granny said as she tried to smile through a mess of gums that lined her thin wrinkled mouth. The irony that Dante missed was that the old woman standing in front of him had once been housekeeper to the Dean Estate. That was back before the war. She had fallen on bad times when both the men of the Dean estate were killed and lady Dean remarried a noble from Stratholme and moved to the south. At one time Granny would have had just as much authority to clamber aboard the Cassandra as Dante, but much like him she wandered aimlessly within the city.

  “ Be nice to ‘aver a Granny, don’t know where mine are. The old priest used to be like a Granddad to me but he’s been weird lately and he’s starting to scare me, don’t seem right no more that-one.” Rose said with the usual carefree chirp she carried. She’d lost both her parents and lived alone, scraping by on what she could get for a few matches peddled to those with the coin to spare, or from the gutters. She was not averse to eating half eaten apples from the edge of the street if it meant filling her belly that night but she never seemed to lose the thin smile that coated her lips.

  “There’s a lot not right within this city now young miss. Help me up to my room with this bag will you girl and we’ll see about getting you something to eat in return.” Granny said. It had been a long time since she had looked after children and she’d never had any of her own. The late Darcy Dean had been the closest she had ever got to having them and she felt she had failed him. She’d been the one to pack his bag and send him off after that stupid Dragons Heart but how was she to know he’d end up dead and buried in the Scorched Lands. Maybe this young girl was her chance to repent. She could look after her with what little she had managed to hide away before leaving the Dean estate. Dante watched as the two shuffled up the corridor. Once they were out of sight he twitched his nose and pulled his backside out from between the wood with a bit of effort, it seemed that time gorging at the Queens had made him fat. He’d have to be extra careful not to bump into any flea ridden cats in the rain filled streets or he’d be an extra plump meal for them. He made for the door with a squeak happy he was still ‘just’ slim enough so slide under it.

  Chapter 6: Ernest and Neill While William skulked around in the sewers ending the lives of rodents and sludge shufflers alike, Harold was still counting his breaths at Saint Bartholomew as morning came to Nywek the 9th. After the inspector had gone Harold did not think he would survive the night. These were no gentle rogues that had come to visit him, they had no honour among thieves and even less for those they figured to be marks. They were not honour bound pirates of the White Flag era, they were common thugs. Harold knew they would shed no remorse for his death. He shut his eyes as soon as the inspector left and sunk back down onto the paper-thin mattress. Through the sound of the wind outside Harold could hear the mismatched clatter of the bow legged thug clambering towards him. Harold could sense the other thug, the one who had passed Inspector Fraser the money, had not moved. He stayed back towards the door.

  Before Harold could wonder why, a sudden sharp point at his neck caused his eyes to snap open. Harold was staring into the deep green eyes of his attacker. He could feel the cold of metal pressed against his neck, not hard enough to cut his skin but enough that he dare not swallow. Harold was scared half to death instantly and feared for his life. If he had been a brave man maybe he could have fought them off, leapt from his hospital bed and somehow made his way past them. He could have escaped into the cold city streets where he could have stolen a horse and ridden to safety, just like a hero from one of the great stories he’d read during one of the cold winter evenings in his armchair. But he was just a tailor’s son and could barely hold himself up on his elbows after his injuries let alone take out two of O’Brien’s own blood. If the stories of O’Brien boys were to be believed, and Harold had no reason not to believe them, then they were a pair of right evil bastards. With the city torn in two more than ever before between the haves and the have not’s, the criminals’ numbers had flourished but sitting at their head was O’Brien. There had to be a reason for it.

  “ Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you.” The goon closest to him whispered with a laugh. Harold could smell the halitosis on his breath, obviously a lifelong friend. Harold felt a sudden warm sensation drip down onto his bare chest and realised the point of the knife had pricked his skin. It was no more than a scratch but the blood that trickled from it confirmed Neill’s threat. With the slightest wrong move on Harold’s part or at the will of this man, Harold would become another dissection dummy for the surgeons to play with. Harold bit down hard and clenched his teeth together. The urge to swallow grew, as did the pain, but Harold dare not risk swallowing.

  “So, Harry is it not?” The thug by the door asked. “It would seem you were at the Queens when it went up. We have a few questions for you. You see; the relic that was our old man died in the fire. But I’m guessing you realise that, or there would be no need for my brother there to be getting so close to you.” He said nodding towards his brother with an almost worried smile. “Now you’re lucky in some ways, my-old man was passed-it and it’s about time that I got to take over the running of the business. Still, someone’s got to bleed for his death. What kind of son would I be if I let it go without retaliation? So you might want to answer quickly if I was you. My-brother can get a little excited.” The words confirmed Harold’s suspicion that even Ernest was unsure of his brothers’ sanity. “Now, how is it that your scrawny little self managed to climb out of there alive, when my own kin went up in smoke?” The room fell silent as the statement hung like death in the air. Harold could not answer with all the pressure on his neck. The slightest movement would sink the cold edge of the blade deeper into his flesh. He had this sickening feeling that they were going to kill him. A sudden flicker of shadow before Harold’s eyes and the Drow heavy had pulled the weapon from his throat. Harold waited for a second or two to see if he was dying. When there was no sharp pain across his throat he realised he had not been sliced open and instead he remained in the living hell that surrounded him. The knife’s new resting place did not give the impression of being any better for him. Neills’s face was so close to Harold’s cheek that he could feel every foul breath that Neill took. Harold would have turned his face away from him if the knife was not now touching his upper eyelid. With the shakes Neill had from the scurvy Harold could see the point wobble back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

  “Now, you will be telling me what you saw or you won’t be seeing much of anything, you get my meaning? Pop’s always brought us up to believe an eye for an eye.” Neill joked. The knife slid back with a sway of his hand and Harold took his chance to blink. His eyes refocused and settled on Neill’s companion, Ernest, who was pacing back and forth by the door like one of the governors guards outside the Handson Castle. As if he knew that Harold’s gaze had fallen on him Ernest stopped and looked towards Harold. Harold could see he was uncomfortable and it surprised him to realise that he did not like what Neill was doing any more than Harold did. He guessed that is why he had not taken over from his father before now, he lacked the killer spirit. A stupid man may have thought this meant he was safe but Harold knew he was not. Just because Ernest did not want him dead did not mean the short goblin of a man next to him would not as soon as kill him than waste his time with questions. It was then that Harold felt the expectance of Neill by his side and Harold mustered up an answer.

  “William.” Harold damn near shouted the name, his voice trembling with a mix of fear, anger and just plain fatigue. The random outburst seemed to confuse matters but what else could he say. He dare not say William’s last name, as scared and confused as Harold was he was clever enough to realise that telling the over-eager Neill that it wa
s a dead man whom had killed his father was suicide. Harold thanked the gods for the moment of genius that struck him. “Some drunk in the street called out his name just as the cellar went up.” Harold lied. The lie slid out easily and Harold just hoped they would not notice. “I don’t know any more than that honestly. Your father paid me well and I needed the work. I would not have had anything to do with this.” Harold added hoping his time serving the family would give him the benefit of the doubt at the very least.

  “Sounds like old Cavanaugh to me. The swine’s sobering up back at Brandies .” Ernest called out from his doorway patrol.

  “Don’t be going too far though Harry. I wouldn’t want to have to go visit

  your father if you’ve been telling us porkpies. Say, he still own that place up on East

  Street?” Neill asked sounding disappointed that no one had been killed.

  The question was followed by another stench ridden and

  deep-throated snigger. The anger peaked in Harold and he wanted to

  attack the swine, to stop him before he got to his family. Harold had

  never really had a fight before but he couldn’t just stand there, or rather

  lay there, while the brute threatened his sick father. Harold started to

  slide up on his elbows ready to, well - do something. He wasn’t really

  sure what he had planned but Neills’s fist came down and across fast,

  striking the side of his face with a blow like thunder. Before he could

  do anything Harold felt the world shake as he sunk back into the

  sheets.

  “You leave them alone.” Harold demanded but he knew his

  warning was worthless and so did Neill. He let out another chuckle

  from between his toothless grin.

  “You got spirit and that’s for sure. No wonder the old man gave you the

  job as barrel slugger. You’d just better hope you got sense not to have lied to us.” Neill

  said to Harold and his stomach churned like so many sour curds. Neill

  turned to address his companion and joked. “Let us leave her ladyship here

  alone. She could most definitely use her beauty sleep.” He said and paused. “He’s

  still a damn sight better looking than your ma.” Neill added with a belly laugh. “That’s your mother too you half wit.” Ernest said with a sigh. It

  was clear who the brain in their partnership was. Neill slid the knife into his jacket as if nothing had happened and made for the door. Harold could hear the two of them bickering playfully as they left the ward. Harold had been lucky for now, but he had to get to his father and warn him. The blow to the head had left him shaking and darkness soon swept over him once more. It seemed his body was not ready to deal with the stress it had been put through in his dreams the cottage called to him once more.

  Chapter 7: Father While Harold’s concussed brain went on another a trip down memory lane that would last all of three days, William’s story continued. Later they would blame it on trapped underground gas but Harold always knew it was William. He had killed those four sewer workers and it was before the last corpse had even cooled that William decided to seek out Paul Augustus and find a cure for his hunger. He was still conscious of what he had done even with the evil growing inside him. Unlike the demons that were rumoured to be stalking the night without any remorse, William was still human enough to feel the guilt for what the presence inside him made him do. It was on the evening of the 17th Thresh that William left his sewer home and headed for a confrontation with Reverend Paul Augustus. It would be the last time he was truly himself before the Rakta Ishvara devoured the last of his humanity.

  William listened under the roadway grate while he waited for the crowds to pass by. It was still raining heavily which meant the streets would soon be empty as even the pinch pricks did not stay out in weather this bad. A whistle in the distance and the clatter of horseshoes marked the departure of the guard officer William had seen entering the hospital earlier that very evening and more than once in the last few days. He’d over heard the officers’ name called out by the driver of the black guard cart. Francis Fraser had come back to see Harold a few times while he rested, unaware of the world around him. But thankfully for Harold, as William watched he was unaware who it was Frances had been coming to see. If he had then William would have had to kill him. The Rakta Ishvara would have made sure of it. It could not risk anyone knowing it was within the city before it was strong enough to rule it. A final glance through the slits into Duck Street and William pushed the grate open and its rusted hinges creaked with the effort, the grate had only been down a few years but the small budget put into manning the sewers had made for shoddy crafts and the poorly set iron had rusted almost solid in the wet winter. William felt the new strength inside him grow further as his arms strained under the force of the reluctant grate. The creature within William’s chest beat and squirmed sending a pulse of stale blackened blood into William’s muscles and with a sudden snap, the aged metal broke free, landing some yards away from its housing. William climbed up into the rain-sodden air enjoying the fresh, if not somewhat fierce wind.

  It was only a short walk to Common Road and the streets were empty apart from an old tomcat chasing down its dinner, but the fat rat gave it the slip sliding under a crack in the nearby masonry. William had to fight the urge to join the hunt the sensation drawing him like a drug, but he had plans for that evening. It would be at Saint Anne’s chapel that William would wait for the priest he remembered from his rebirth. William’s legs began to move with vigour he had never had while alive. Having spent most hours sitting behind a desk he’d grown feeble and sluggish while he had been alive, but now he ran faster than an athlete from one of the Solar games. The rainwater splashed up from the puddles and pounded against his face. He ran faster than any horse he had ever seen and in that moment William felt alive. He made it to Saint Anne’s chapel unhindered. He knew that the Reverend would not come to the chapel until the morning and he would have to wait. He didn’t mind though, Saint Anne’s was far more comfortable than the sewers he had been calling home, but the air was too dry even in all the rain for the Rakta Ishvara sitting on his chest like a giant callus. So William would make his way down into the basement below. It was the first place he remembered after the mugging that had killed him. When he had been dragged back from the lifestream as a visitor in his own body, William had awoken in the catacombs. It was there he chose to wait out the night.

  William sat skulking in the obscurity, unmoving. He was like a spider waiting for a fly. One of the strangest attributes to his new state was the lack to need sleep. At night, when most people would tire, William felt more energised. The creature inside him despised sunlight, but in the darkness it could grow. The blood god, the Rakta Ishvara, grew in strength as the sun hid from the night. Its barb like tendrils pressed deeper into William’s body each night piercing his organs and turning them black as it, slowly, night by night, took over his soul.

  William was becoming more powerful than a giant and swifter than the fiercest of wild cats but the price to pay was the total absorption of everything that made him. Eventually the sun rose outside the chapel. It was a perfect and calm day, bitterly cold but beautiful. William’s night blessing faded and the weakness of mortality coated him once more. The door above him opened and Paul shuffled in, making his way down the stairs. William waited until the grumbling had passed him by, the soreness in Paul’s knee obviously playing him up in the bitter cold made him more vocal than a town crier. In the flick of an eye the shadow skulking in the corner had moved and with it William now crouched at the foot of the stairs. Even with the true strength of the Rakta fading William moved with lightening speed, before the dust he had unsettled had even landed he had blocked Paul’s escape. Paul turned slowly his eyes wide with fright. He saw William standing behind him. In a moment of fear and as a kneejerk reaction Paul reached for the table trying desperat
ely to grab the tongs he had left there. They were not sharp and Paul would have preferred the point of a blade between him and his experiment but beggars, or in this case, priests, cannot be choosers. Paul barely blinked but he did not see William’s lunge and a sudden and firm grasp upon his collar lifted Paul clean off his feet sending him sailing against the cold stone floor with a painful thud. Lying there helplessly, like so many of his victims, Paul ached all over fearing for his life. Even riddled with fright it was funny to Paul to think that he would come to an end at the hand of the Rakta Ishvara at the very place he had created it.

  “William, wait.” Paul begged, hoping the controls he had put in place would still work. Paul had no idea how William had broken free, the herbal leafs that the villagers had given him should have worked. It was the only reason the Rakta Ishvara from the Green Stone Isles had not left its temple. It should not have been able to resist them. It was a kind of old magic, a controlling spell of sorts that occurred naturally within the plant. As William bore down on Paul, Paul could see through the rags of scorched clothing that hung from William’s muscular form that any trace of the leaf had gone. The fire, he thought, it must have been the fire that destroyed them. Paul felt foolish and old. It was an oversight he should have thought of. The dry leaves would have turned to dust and ash in the heat of the inferno at the Queens. That was why William never returned as he should.