There was a roar of laughter from the other men as they too sat down on stools near the fire.
‘I don’t much like the look or smell of you,’ announced Dody. ‘You’re creepy with a big mouth and unpleasant manner, besides being fat and ugly. You speak too much but listen little, particularly to sound advice. You’re not clever. In fact you're dull witted and must have a learning disability, besides being insulting, grossly indecent, coarse, vile, bad tempered and probably the worst specimen of a man – if indeed you are a man – that I have ever had the misfortune to come across in all my days. Have I left anything out do you think?’ He said it all without taking a breath.
The fat man looked flabbergasted. ‘Besides that what’s wrong with me?’ he asked nodding dumbly.
The mercenaries laughed aloud, holding their bellies. ‘Don’t mince your words boy. Tell him what you really think of him,’ shouted the leader. ‘I think I’d have the good sense to leave if I were you, before the lad butters your head and swallows you whole.’
There was another roar of laughter as the fat man turned and marched the twenty paces to the doors, opened them and disappeared into the darkening night without saying another word. Well, what could he have said?
Suddenly, there was the sound of a horse’s hooves on the road outside, and within seconds the rider came bursting through the double doors brushing the dust from his clothes. It was Thomas and he was furious, hopping mad. ‘I’m not supposed to start back as doorman for another seven days, so why have you summoned me?’ he scolded. ‘Can you not manage without me, even for a day? I've urgent business searching for a madman – a mindless killer.’
The two friends stared at each other dispassionately, while the mercenaries bragged amongst themselves of what they had done to the Sheriff's men. They began to laugh loudly and shouted, ‘Where’s that bloody mutton, we’re starving here.’ Then one of them made the biggest mistake of his life when he threw a flagon of mead through the air, hitting Thomas full in the face, drenching him and cutting his chin. Turning, he glared at the man who threw the flagon. He was now arm-wrestling one of his comrades, boasting that he couldn’t be beat.
Thomas rounded on the two men, clenching a hand around the two fists locked together, and he slammed them both down onto the table with a crunching thud, glaring at the boaster who smelt like horse dung. ‘I've just beaten the both of you with one hand,’ he said with a snarl. The boaster jerked his hand free of Thomas’, and as he did so he ripped the arm of his shirt on the corner of the table revealing a deep triangular scar on his left forearm. Thomas’ eyes widened encompassing the scar and he sucked in a deep breath. A hood shadowed the man’s face.
Thomas took a quick step backward. ‘Get up. I’ve been looking for you. You’re a devil possessed murderer,’ he snapped bitterly, drawing his swords, ‘and the manner of your crimes is monstrous.’
The man hesitated, his hooded eyes flickering from side to side looking for a way out. Suddenly, Thomas had a seizure and fell to the floor dropping his swords. The murderer laughed scornfully while Dardo and Dody ran to his aid, but the band of mercenaries sneered at the sight of Thomas holding his head, screaming.
‘He’s the one who looks possessed,’ shouted one of the mercenaries draining his drink in one large swallow.
The murderer took his opportunity, rose quickly from his stool and bolted for the doors, and when he got outside into the cold evening air he made a dash towards Nottingham Castle, which was only a mile away.
Thomas’ seizure faded quickly, and even though he was disturbed of mind he climbed to his feet mere moments after the killer had run from the inn and saw the back of him disappearing around a bend in the road. He ran after him and within moments was on his trail, right behind him. It was now dusk and the light had almost faded. It was also desperately cold, misty and raining and the smell of coal oil lingered heavily in the air from the extinguished wall lanterns of the castle when Thomas arrived there.
Ahead of him was a wide entrance blocked by a huge steel portcullis and now there was no sign of his quarry. The castle echoed to the high-pitched screams of the howling wind as it blew through the iron grills and gateways, but he scrambled up the portcullis onto the adjoining wall without effort and leapt onto the battlements. To his surprise the killer was waiting for him there. He stopped and waited, shaking with fury.
‘For the horror and all desolation you've caused in your life, I'm here to show you the entrance to Hell, for I'm God's avenging angel,’ Thomas snapped. ‘I am Death!’
Wordlessly the other turned, climbing a stone spiral staircase that wound its way up to the topmost tower. Thomas followed, climbing the three hundred steps with increasing speed to the very pinnacle and the other awaited his coming with his sword drawn. Both men could hear the city-dwellers rushing from their homes – a huge mob racing to see the action – led by Dardo and Dody. Pausing briefly on the top step Thomas superstitiously knelt to check the hidden dagger in his boot. It was there as always. Taking a deep breath he drew his swords from their scabbards, lunging forward quickly, making a slashing cut to the others neck. The man parried the blow easily, lowering his hood finally and Thomas couldn’t believe his own eyes. It was Malcolm, his brother. Yet he had killed him with his own blades five years earlier – or so he thought.
A tiny prickle of regret touched both men’s souls. Once they had been inseparable – like light and dark or love and hate – and one could not exist without the other. Memories of their childhood flared making them feel incredibly sad because once upon a time, each would have given their life gladly for the other. In those far off days, brotherly love was a most precious thing.
Coming back to the present after reliving past memories, Malcolm in his arrogance didn’t believe that his brother could beat him a second time, or that he would even come close. He launched a sudden attack, storming forward, his right booted foot slamming into Thomas’ stomach, hurling him from his feet and he slumped to the ground groaning and gasping for breath. Malcolm loomed over him, his dark eyes staring down unblinking. He paused savouring the moment, watching Thomas roll to his knees and haul himself upright with his limbs trembling. Malcolm looked incredibly fierce, his insane gaze holding to his brothers hard stare.
Thomas gasped for breath. ‘You're much more aggressive and more determined these days brother.'
Malcolm stared down at his own hands. They were trembling too. ‘My blood is hot and I think you're right. Are you getting a bad feeling about this fight? Are you ready to die?’ he said, his eyes fever bright and glittering.
More rain sheeted down and the distant rumble of thunder drummed out. Trailers of mist drifted across the battlements obscuring their vision and it was getting darker by the minute. Malcolm hammered his fist into Thomas’ chin spinning him from his feet again and he tumbled and rolled, gasping for air. Swearing colourfully he thought of the perils they had faced together as children and his memories were tinged with great sadness and regret. They had after all endured the same awful upbringing, so why had he turned out to be a heroic man – while Malcolm was a deranged, murdering monster.
Thomas wiped the rain from his eyes, staring hard at the other who had many faces, each one as evil as the next. But then, Malcolm had always been filled with hate and a love of destruction, even as a small child. ‘Today you’re uncannily fast my brother,’ said Thomas hauling himself upright again, gasping for breath. Malcolm smiled his evil smile, eyes wildly malevolent and they almost seemed to glow like white fire. A web of lightning flashed nearby illuminating the battlements and Malcolm bared his teeth in a wolf’s-head grin. His mocking laughter boomed out echoing across the castle ramparts. ‘We're both uncannily fast, which is why the killing of you will be all the sweeter,’ he said with a snarl.
‘What dread force has ripped away your soul brother?’ asked Thomas sullenly.
Malcolm’s keen eyes stared hard at the other. He shook his head. ‘I've never had one,’ he snapped, his sword flashing
for the others chest.
Thomas sidestepped blocking the thrust, but then a fist hit him full in the face again as he shifted awkwardly off balance from one foot to the other and he was sent sprawling to the ground, dropping his swords. Bright lights shone before his eyes, dizziness swamping him, and through a great buzzing in his ears he heard his brother’s mocking laughter. His strong face trembled and he fought hard to focus his eyes on Malcolm. Again he hauled himself upright, but he was so unsteady that he tripped and toppled over the wall. Pure instinct saved him from falling to his death when his hand shot out grasping it. Clinging to the stone with his fingertips he glanced back over his shoulder at the long drop beneath him. Panic ripped through his soul.
Malcolm stared at him coldly. ‘There's much here to think upon before you die,’ he said looming over him. ‘Indeed, what would a brave man’s last thoughts be before the eternal blackness engulfs him? And the answer to that question is – that he leaves his loved ones behind, unprotected and at the mercy of a murdering monster.’ Again his mad laughter boomed out across the battlements.
Thomas’ face-hardened. Now the fear that gripped him was not of falling. Lira and his children’s faces floated before him and his right hand flashed down to his boot and back up again, the shiny glint of his razor sharp knife blade flashing before Malcolm’s eyes as it slammed into his neck. Blood gouted from the severed jugular drenching Thomas’ face. His brother struggled upright and then slumped against the wall as more images flashed before his eyes – his battered mother lying dead in her bed, his father hanging from the gallows, Master Gallus his mentor slumped dead at his feet, and he finally realised that the sharpness of his sorrows would never fade away. He sighed watching Malcolm’s warm red blood drip through his fingers and then he climbed clear of the wall.
Wiping the knife blade on his tunic he returned it to his boot and rose to his full height to the sound of loud cheers from the crowd below, but then Malcolm shuddered, breathing heavily, hauling himself upright from the wall. Thomas was taken aback, shocked by the sight of his brother’s resurrection, thinking him dead. Blood was pouring from the wound to his neck now and pooling at his feet and he groaned pitifully, sitting down cross-legged staring at Thomas.
Malcolm smiled weakly. ‘I didn’t really want to kill you, brother,’ he said finally. ‘But I did want you to kill me. I've seen and done things that no man should ever see or do – horrible things, murderous things. But I'm quite mad, driven so by the bite of a rabid wolf.’
Thomas stared at his brother, unable to speak.
‘When the disease had taken a strong hold of me,’ Malcolm continued, staring down at his trembling hands, ‘I began to get bad feelings and hear strange voices in my head, foam at the mouth, get intense pain in my skull and I just wanted it all to stop. And now it has and it’s time to die.’ His voice echoed eerily. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head slowly until his chin rested gently on his chest and he looked almost peaceful, sitting there unmoving. Finally, he took his last breath and stopped breathing.
The rain was lashing down and mist swirled in murky trailers about his stilled body making him look ghostlike. Thunder drummed out and lightning flashed nearby illuminating the castle walls as Thomas gave a short respectful bow, his large eyes fixed firmly on his dead brother. Strangely, there was a peaceful smile etched on Malcolm’s face and for a single heartbeat before he had closed his eyes, Thomas saw something eminently human beacon from them – and the rabid, murdering monster that was had finally been tamed once and for all. Through misted eyes he stared grimly at Malcolm’s lifeless body and sighed, more memories flaring.
‘You've nothing more to fear brother, I am dead,’ whispered Malcolm's spirit voice inside Thomas’ head. And that was the last time the voice ever spoke to him.
The End
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 31