A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Read online

  “So, you at least learned my name before you did this to me.” William said through a snarl. Inside the hunger was demanding he kill the wretch in front of him and feed. Old blood was still blood to the parasite, but William fought against the urge. He had too many questions to ask first. “What is happening to me?” He asked.

  “You are alive, I saved you.” Paul said his fear subsiding somewhat “Surely you are thankful for that?” He added, glad that his test subject was still human inside and that the Rakta Ishvara had not fully taken over. William was not yet like the beast he had seen rip the child apart back in The Dark Gulf, no, he still had humanity and people were easy and weak. Paul hoped he could talk his way out of danger and convince William to put the herbs back around his neck enslaving him again.

  “ Alive? You call this existence alive? Do you know what I’ve done?” William asked showing his blood stained body as an example. His clothes had burnt to a crisp during the fire and some fibres remained attached to his fully healed skin much like that of long dead mummified corpses, but instead of blistered and rotting skin. William looked refreshed, almost sculpted, with renewed muscle mass. Paul shook his head buying himself time to admire his creation. The burns had cleared up completely and Paul could see the solid and rock-like structure attached to William’s ribcage. It moved and pulsated like the heart of a normal man but looked more like a crustacean clinging onto William’s chest. It had grown to the point that it had ripped out of the skin. It looked almost crab-like in structure but with the points of the legs still buried deep beneath the flesh. Paul knew from his experiments that once the parasite had taken such a strong hold onto a host body, it was almost impossible to kill. If the host body were mutilated, then as long as the Rakta could feed on fresh blood, the parts would re-grow. The only way to finish it off was to insert something hard and sharp into the ribcage structure. If the Rakta Ishvara was punctured in that way, it could safely be removed. Paul remembered for a moment the huge golden spikes that had lined the temple in The Dark Gulf, their devil god so sure of its own strength taunted the villagers to try to kill it. Shaking the memories from his mind, Paul flashed back to the urgency of his own situation.

  “You mean the fire? They had to pay. They were going to stop what I have achieved here. I am so close to perfecting you.” Paul said obviously proud of his work. He tried to push himself up. His fear, almost gone it was being replaced by the anger of his creation’s stupidity. That was until William grew infuriated at the snivelling old man in front of him and sent his foot crashing into Paul’s chest with the strength of a blacksmith’s hammer. He pressed him back onto the bitterly cold floor and then the fear returned as did Paul’s silence. William told Paul in gory detail the entirety of what he had done. How he had escaped into the putrid sewers, how he had fed on mice and rats and how his hunger had grown and he had lost control killing no less than five people.

  “Stop, just stop please. You don’t understand what I’m trying to do.” Paul begged like many of his victims before him. He felt a mix of trepidation and self loathing as he begged for his life. Paul could tell by the blackening of William’s eyes that he did not have long before the beast would need to feed again, if he really was going to talk his way out of this he had to do it now. “The Rakta Ishvara – I mean you – it will save us all, it’s the cure to so many things. It can stop even death, just as soon as I cure the bloodlust and I am so close, so very near.” Paul said, offering the cure up like a carrot to a donkey. He didn’t know much about the man he had chosen to raise from the grave but he did know he had a family. Paul hedged his bets that William would want to see them again and the curing of his bloodlust would let him do that.

  “I don’t care what you’re trying to do. I want to know how to stop this thing inside him.” William snarled. His hands shook as they clenched around the priest’s collar. The hunger inside his mind urged him to sink his teeth into the priest’s wrinkled neck and taste the sweet bitter nectar within.

  “ I don’t know how to yet, but-” Paul began to grovel as he saw the blackness growing over William’s eyes.

  “-When?” William interrupted the urge inside screaming louder than a flock of gulls. If he didn’t leave the priest soon and get back to the sewers he would end up killing him.

  “Soon I will. I just need to do more tests and it will be perfected.” Paul hazarded a smile as he tried to play to William’s sensitive side, if he still had one. Paul had seen the newspaper article. He knew William was a family man. He had been a good man before he was killed and if enough of that remained then Paul just might get to see another dawn.

  “More tests? Is that what I am to you, just a failed experiment?” William was losing control and his words became deep and animal-like he needed answers but would not be able to hold on long enough to get them. A huge grin filled Paul’s face and William knew that the man he held in a vice-like grip had long since lost any hold on sanity.

  “No, my son, you were his first success. From you I may find the cure. You will be the one to give me life, just as I did you.” Paul Augustus said in a revelation that William would never understand. Paul was sick, dying, he had lung cancer. It had spread through his body and would soon kill him, there would be nothing that the doctors could do to cure his pox as they called it, and the magic which may once have saved him was now outlawed. Paul had resigned himself to death before he found out about the Rakta Ishvara. This parasitic vampire could cure him, if only he could stop the beast from taking over. It would repair the damage done and kill the disease. It would make Paul all but immortal. “If you allow me to use your blood in my tests then we may be able to perfect you.”

  “We when was it that we became a team? I never asked for this.” William said backing away from Paul. The urge to feed was sounding off like cannon fire inside his skull. William had to silence it. He dropped his head heavily onto the ornate stone sarcophagus close by, sending a chip of stone across the catacombs. The hunger was almost blinding now.

  “True, but then most do not ask for the blessing they are given. I brought the creature that shares your body with you back from The Dark Gulf. It is because of that that you still breathe. Do you still think about your family that lost you when you were murdered? If we stop your hunger then they can have you back.” Paul bargained. He knew it was risky keeping William close by but the opportunity was too great to miss. William was the first successful application of a Rakta Ishvara leech. William suddenly withdrew his face from the stonework and staggered back toward the stairs, something changing within him. The blackness filled his eyes completely as the Rakta Ishvara pumped dead and congealing blood through his pupils.

  “No, I will not help you. I’ve done too much for you already, I’ve killed for you priest. The creator will judge you for your sins.” William spat as he ran up the stairs and through the door of Saint Anne’s. He had wanted to kill the priest but knew if there was any hope of ending this nightmare he was now living it would rely on what Paul knew.

  “It is a shame that he will have to be culled. The toxin has gone too far. Damn it.” Paul cursed to the dankness as he pulled himself onto his aching knee. He breathed a sigh of relief at his solitude and relative safety. He knew he was too weak to kill the Rakta Ishvara in its final metamorphosis, but then an idea came to him. The fire did not finish them all off, so O'Brien’s sons may yet prove useful.

  Chapter 8: Arms of a Woman If Harold had looked back over the times to come he would have been both thankful and remorseful that William did not kill the priest Paul on that fateful visit. If he had, then the way the story plays out would have probably been quite different and Harold would be rotting away in jail blamed for the fire at the Queens. A strange thing to wish for but at least Harold would have been safe in jail. If William had spent just a few more minutes in the cold catacombs feeding on the priest then Harold may never have crossed paths with him again and the Rakta Ishvara would have never got to see Harold’s face. As fate would have it
Francis Fraser, the inspector, had finished spending his bribe money and had come back for Harold on the 18th accompanied by two officers from the special unit. He stood by the door reading his rights while the two other baboons forced Harold to his feet, dressing and cuffing him.

  They dressed him in the same smoke-stained and scorched clothes that he had been brought into the hospital with. The off-white woollen trousers felt like ice as they were brutally pulled up and buckled around his waist. Before the sleep left his eyes they led him out of the hospital pushing Harold ahead of them, his arms pulled behind his back in restraint. The two officers loaded him in the back of a closed black cart. The chairs inside resembled two large wooden boxes, one was fixed to either side with a small gap in-between. The two specials sat up front on the riding porch while Inspector Francis Fraser was inside the booth with Harold. He was the only other occupant in the back. They both sat gazing out of the barred windows at Neeskmouth as it rattled past.

  Harold had barely been awake a matter of hours before Frances came to collect him and his mind was still fuzzy from the time he had lost. The opening of the market stalls ensured Harold had plenty of witnesses for his lowest moment. Harold assumed he was their prime suspect for the fire as it was blatantly obvious that his story of a dead man burning the pub was not being believed. In the back of the carriage inspector Fraser’s eyes turned on him as if he was trying to assess him.

  “Something is bugging me, lad. Why did you do it?” He asked, trying to drop the formal edge he carried the first time they met.

  “Look, I didn’t do it.” Harold replied, frustrated. In the silence that followed Harold watched as a young girl that seemed to be being followed around by an old woman tried peddling matches to some noble in a suede black top hat.

  “Right, yes I forgot.” Fraser looked at a grubby old notepad that he had filled with illiterate scribbling of the case before finally settling on his notes from their first meeting before continuing. “It was William Bailey that started the fire. You do know they found him dead over a week ago and buried him at Saint Paul’s? I even watched his funeral procession myself. Now tell me, before you went to work the night in question, had you been chased by the dragon, perhaps?” Frances asked flatly. To start with Harold did not realise what the inspector meant and it took some moments of silence before Harold remembered reading about a new fad in the city called being chased by the dragon. It was a form of opium abuse that had been coming in with the influx of Drow since the end of the war. It had taken its name as it was mainly - at first - ex soldiers that used the drug to try and block out the images of the many men they had witnessed screaming, burning to death, during the last recurrence of dragons.

  “I have never used opium.” Harold replied seemingly onto deaf ears. It was true. Harold wasn’t even that hard of a drinker and stuck only to ale as a way to avoid the foul tasting water that was drawn up from the well close to their home. It was becoming common to try fancy spirits that were being shipped in from across the sea that had the power to blister wood and bleach clothing, but Harold rarely touched the stuff.

  “Then how else do you explain a dead man walking into a bar? It sounds like the setup to a bad joke. Then you claim he set fire to it and walked away down the street. Now, I’ve been in this job for twenty five years and this is the best story I’ve ever heard.” Francis said as he sat looking at Harold expectantly. Harold knew what he had seen even if it did not make sense. He was sure he was right and the more Harold thought of it the more convinced he was that it had been William Bailey. It was not unheard of for mages to dabble in necromancy. It was banned even by the Tower itself and no one would dare openly use magic in the city anymore, but that did not mean that there were not little pockets of resistance to the imposed laws.

  “I don’t know, perhaps he had a brother. Maybe it wasn’t him but it looked like him, maybe it was a renegade mage.” Harold refuted, trying to convince himself as much as the inspector.

  “Now, that could be the case but-” The inspector was interrupted as the cart hit something in the road jolting it forward. Harold smashed his already sore head against the painted black pine interior and the force of the impact sent Francis flying to his side of the carriage. He bounced from the wall knocking hard against the floor with a crunching sound that could only be breaking bone.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” The inspector bellowed from his slumped position on the floor, his voice sounded forced and his nose was bloodied.

  “Someone jumped out in front of the horses. We hit the curb trying to dodge the imbecile.” A muffled voice called back. Suddenly, Harold could hear screaming and the sound of running footsteps receding into the distance.

  Shortly after, there followed a second smaller judder to the carriage and a commotion which sounded like the two specials grappling with someone outside. Fraser, who was still watching through the hatch, suddenly bent double. His face paling as he covered his mouth. The vomit escaped from around the edges of his fingers as he slammed the door open and fell out into the street. Staring in amazement at the scene before his eyes, Harold saw William ram Fraser against the side of the coach, the attack had come so swiftly Frances hadn’t even had time to call out. William bit down hard into the inspector’s neck and as he came up, his face coated in blood. William looked straight at Harold. What madness would drive a man to do such a thing? Harold did not have time to consider before he was out of the coach and running. Harold had not gone far before he wanted to look back to see if he was being chased, but he was too scared of what he might see. His fear kept him going over his aches and pains. His vision was blurry from his head wound so he almost didn’t see the girl who stood by the side alley. She grabbed him, almost spinning him off his feet as Harold passed her. He froze in front of her and could see she shared his fear. She beckoned him to follow her and they ran together down another side street.

  Pale brown walls overhung above their heads. The street had a gully running down its centre and debris seemed to clutter every inch of the road. Washing lines ran between the buildings and the hanging gray linen slapped at them as they ran past. They fled down side streets after side roads and along main roads, dodging past market stalls and barely missing a child playing with their hoop. Kicking the wooden ring from his legs, they finally darted into another alley, Harold felt like his lungs would give out at any moment. Suddenly the girl stopped while she fumbled with some keys. Spinning around Harold gazed up the alleyway back onto the main street where there was still no sign of William, thank God. Feeling a tug on his arm, Harold followed the girl into the house where she quickly slammed the door shut and bolted it behind him. Harold slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, panting.

  “Thank you.” Harold said instinctively, the girl had helped him, a convict, to escape. After a moment of catching his breath he continued. “Why did you help me?” Harold asked sounding ungrateful, but he was more in shock as to why she risked her life after what William did than questioning the ethics behind it.

  “You don’t recognise me, do you?” She asked “The other night, not far from the docks, you gave me money and told me to head home.” She said and even without the slurring it came to him. She was the prostitute Harold had seen before in what felt like another lifetime. With the bruising gone, Harold realised she was much older than he’d first thought. She had aged well for a working girl and Harold wondered not for the first time what her story was. She had to be closer to his age but she had kept a youthful gleam to her skin that was not common of the local tarts.

  “I do, but that doesn’t explain why you waited for me.” Harold said in a half-truth. He felt a slight pang of guilt, as Harold knew if the tables had been reversed, he would not have waited for her. After he had given her the money Harold had not even spared a second thought for the young girl or young woman as she had turned out to be. Without the bruising she looked almost sweet and innocent and Harold found himself intrigued by her, almost forgetting the horror
s he had just witnessed. He did not believe in love at first sight but he could not deny his heart fluttered and not just through the exhaustion of the escape. He brushed the feeling off under the pretence that she had just saved his life but that did not mean that his heart slowed any as they rested from the run back to her home on the Knoll.

  “I saw you that night, could tell you didn’t have bad in those eyes. Whatever the guard had you for was wrong. Anyway, I couldn’t just let that mad man get you. I have seen a few things in my time, but never anyone that bloody barking. Let’s leave it to the city guards now, eh?” She said showing strength of character Harold had never imagined her tiny frame could have held. “I meant to ask you but you ran off so quickly. Why did you give me that money the other night? That was many a coin to cough up without turning a trick for you.”

  “If I am to be truly honest with you, I thought you were little more than a child.” Harold answered, too tired to think of an excuse other than the truth. His mind was spinning with what had just happened.

  “Ah, so you just wanted to get a youngling off the street for a night. Well, bless your cottons. Aye, I do look young. Plenty a man that pays more for me just for that reason, they like the little ones you see. Sick bastards the lot of them, but it puts food on my table and shoes on my feet.” She replied seemingly impressed at Harold’s generosity.